- 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

The  Theodore  K  Koundakjian 

Collection 
of  American  Humor 


ff  K^rj  f    /?/ 


POEMS. 


• 


THE 


PALACE    BEAUTIFUL, 


By    ORPHEUS    C.    KERR. 


NEW      YORK I 

Carlcton,    Publisher,    413     Broadway. 


M  DCCC  LXV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864,  by 
GEO.    W.   CARLETON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


B.  OKAtGHEAD, 
Printer,  Stereoiyper,  and  Elecirotyper, 

Caiton  13uiltiing, 

81,  83,  and  85  Centre  Strett. 


To 


MY     MOTHER. 


CONTENTS. 


IN  CAPITE, 9 

THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL,  .         .         .         ...         .         .11 

SPRING  VIOLETS  UNDER  THE  SNOW, 22 

THE  MAN  OF  FEELING, 24 

AGE  BLUNTLY  CONSIDERED,       ......  27 

ASPASIA, 29 

CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADIERS,  .....  34 

ALONE,      ..........  39 

AVENGED, 43 

THE  SOLDIER'S  EPITAPH, 49 

SUMMER, 55 

COSMO-BELLA,    .        .        .         .         .        .        .        .        .57 

THE  FALLS, 60 

ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA, 65 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  UNSUNG, 71 

"PlCCIOLA," 75 

DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE, 79 

THE  PERFECT  HUSBAND,    .......  83 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE, 86 

MIDSUMMER, 92 

THE  VILLAGE  PASTOR, *     .  95 


CONTENDS. 


PAGE 


LEONORE,  .        ...      .        .        .       ,.        .'       .         .  101 

THE  MIRROR,    .         .       '.         .         .....'.  105 

OUR  GUIDING  STARS,        v        .        .        •     •   •       ,•        .  109 

THE  MADMAN,    .         .         .....        ....  Ill 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  ROSES,        .         .     .  .•,      ;r        .    _    .  123 

THE  GENERAL'S  WIFE,       ...         .    -*f':'^,     «    '    .  125 

THE  ANCIENT  CAPTAIN,      .        ...        .        .        .-        .  127 

A  FABLE  FOR  STRATEGISTS,       .        •        ,   ^    .   e     ..  .    .  130 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  OLD,       .        .  '     V    ;   •    "    •        .  141 

PSYCHE,    ......    ::  •*•'-*:   .•••..-•    .  145 

THE  MIDNIGHT  WATCH,     .        .        •    t!f       -:    : -.•  (:    •  149 

THE  HOPES  OF  DAYS  GONE  BY,       .        .       V,    t  •        •  156 

OUR  FLAG,        .         .        .       • . .  *'\;"'r?'$ '-.'- ':J  <(  ;: '.  158 

No   MORE,        .        .        .        .        .-       .-       .        •.' •'..'.  163 

CHRISTMAS  EVE,         .     /,  ^  ;:rk^  : 166 

THE  DYING  YEAR,    .        .     ,^:>.,f;-v,     .        .        .176 


THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL. 


T  ORD  MOST  SUPREME,  whose  image  is  the  man 
Of  Reason,  wedded  to  the  vestal  Truth, 
Teach  me,  beyond  the  mortal  veil  of  youth, 

To  trace  Life's  perfect  compensating  plan. 

Why  burns  the  torch  of  morning  on  the  hills, 
That  catch  the  blazing  roses  of  its  gleams, 
When  subtle  darkness  falls  between  the  beams, 

And  all  the  world  with  haunted  shadow  fills  ? 

Why  blooms  the  dew-decoying  rose  of  red, 
And  sheds  its  fragrance  in  the  laughing  light ; 
When  weeping  tempests,  prison'd  in  a  night, 

Are  pent,  to  burst  upon  its  modest  head  ? 

Why  scales  of  vernal  armor  clothe  the  tree, 
And  hide  the  flutter  of  its  singing  heart, 
When  Winter  cometh,  with  his  icy  dart, 

To  set  th'  imprison' d  soul  of  Nature  free  ? 


12  THE   PALACE   BEAUTIFUL. 

Why  glows  the  burning  Soul  in  Summer  love, 
And  fondly  dreams  an  everlasting  Now, 
"While  snows  of  death  are  falling  on  the  brow, 

That  draws  its  worship  from  the  Throne  above  ? 

These  are  but  idle  questions,  heart  of  mine ; 
For,  in  the  narrow  limits  of  thy  range, 
Behold  how  wisely  ev'ry  perfect  change 

Is  made  the  record  of  a  Pow'r  benign. 

The  darkest  night  cannot  obscure  the  ray 
That  eastward  heralds  of  the  coming  morn ; 
And  from  the  darkness  is  a  glory  born, 

To  crown  the  temples  of  another  day. 

Deep  in  the  fragrant  casket  of  its  heart, 
The  blushing  rose  secretes  a  beam  of  light, 
That  pales  beneath  the  storm-shod  heel  of  night, 

Yet  shines  anew  when  shadows  all  depart. 

A  singing  heart  returns  unto  the  tree, 

When  second  life  has  come  with  newer  Spring ; 
And  though  its  voice  hath  not  the  olden  ring, 

'Tis  still  the  blended  notes  of  melody. 


THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL.  13 

New  buds  of  passion  rise  within  the  soul, 

From  where  the  first-born  Passion  buried  lies ; 
And  as  the  cypress  of  remembrance  dies, 

The  lily's  cup  receives  the  tears  that  roll. 

Aid  me,  thou  mystic  Sprite  of  Poesy, 
To  catch  the  inspiration  cf  the  scene, 
And  draw  a  picture  of  what  lies  between 

The  Thought  Invisible  and  things  we  see ! 

The  Palace  Beautiful !     Oh,  goodly  sight, — 
As  like  a  queen  in  ermine  robes  it  stood, 
With  radiance  bursting  from  it  in  a  flood, 

Like  morning  scatter'd  from  embodied  light. 

Its  turrets  caught  the  early  smiles  of  day, 
And  from  the  twinkling  windows  in  its  walls, 
Soft  notes  of  music  fell,  as  music  falls 

Through  bird-lit  vistas  of  the  woodland  spray. 

Flow'rs — lovely  flow'rs ! — imperial  purple  blent 
With  blush  distilled  from  off  the  velvet  cheek, 
.Transparent,  glowing  with  the  fires  that  speak 

Of  virgin  modesty,  and  love  half  spent ; 


14  THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL. 

And  golden  ashes  of  the  morning  hours, 
With  shadeless  purity,  that  hides  the  dew ; 
And  polished  emerald,  that  waveth  through 

The  pillar'd  temple  of  a  thousand  flow'rs  ; — 

v .  •  •  *      ' 

All  roll'd  in  silent  beauty  at  the  base, 
Twining  a  veil  or^fragrance  with  the  air, 
Impalpable  to  all  but  angels  fair, 

And  yet  the  guardian-spirit  of  the  place. 

And  he  who  called  this  bright  domain  his  own, 
Had  made  the  faultless  structure  laugh  at  time ; 
For  each  retainer  reckoned  it  a  crime 

To  let  the  dust  of  ages  blot  a  stone. 

The  sculptur'd  images  above  the  gates, 
The  jewel'd  bindings  of  the  turrets  tall, 
And  all  the  matchless  tracings  of  the  wall, 

Knew  no  declining  from  their  earliest  states. 

For  lo !  the  Master  lived ;  and  while  he  felt 
The  strength  of  manhood  in  his  bosom  bide, 
He  made  the  Palace  wear  a  guise  of  pride, 

And  girt  its  beauties  with  a  living  belt. 


THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL.  15 

The  lofty  ramparts  seem'd  to  share  his  will, 
And  on  their  shining  fronts  there  did  appear 
A  fix'd,  unyielding,  yet  a  graceful  sneer 

At  ev'ry  object  lower  than  a  hill. 

Thus,  wrapt  in  wondrous  glory,  did  it  rest — 
The  Palace  Beautiful — the  shrine  of  Love  ! 
And  in  the  blissful  eooing  of  a  dove, 

There  lurk'd  the  secret  of  Divine  behest. 

One  day,  a  Trav'ler  stood  before  the  gate ; 

In  youth  unaided  by  the  hope  of  youth, 

And,  in  his  folly,  blinded  to  the  truth, 
That  to  be  satisfied  is  to  be  great. 

With  head  inclined  he  stood,  and  hand  to  shade 
The  cold,  blue  eyes,  that  could  not  bear  the  sight 
Of  beauty  floating  in  a  sea  of  light, 

And  in  a  native  majesty  arrayed. 

Fix'd  in  an  attitude  of  wild  surprise, 

And  ev'ry  feature  stamp' d  with  Passion's  brand, 
He  clutch'd  his  throbbing  bosom  with  his  hand, 

And  breath'd  the  fire  that  blazed  within  his  evos. 


16  THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL. 

"  Why  must  I  seek  the  hovel  for  my  home, 
And  toil  forever  near  the  sordid  earth  ? 
As  though  the  mighty  God  that  gave  me  birth, 
Made  me,  than  other  men,  of  baser  loam  ! 

"  He  made  me  peer  of  kings,  by  kingly  plan  ; 
Nor  ever  wore  a  king  a  nobler  crown, 
Than  by  the  King  of  Kings  is  wafted  down, 
To  grace  the  forehead  of  the  Honest  man. 

"  Why  stand  I  here  a  stranger,  and  alone, 

While  he  whose  blessings  in  yon  palace  shine, 
Hath  not  a  heart  more  true  to  heart  than  mine, 
Nor  lordly  nature  of  a  higher  tone  ? 

"  0  Palace  Beautiful !  thou  art  my  goal ; 

And  thou  my  Heav'n,  so  near  the  heav'n  above, 
That  I  would  yield  to  thee  my  all  of  love, 
And  with  idolatry  defile  my  soul ! 

"  What  though  there  dungeons  be,  and  blackness  dire, 
Far  down  beneath  thy  lustrous  beauty's  rays  ? 
There  is  enough  of  light  in  all  thy  ways, 
To  blind  my  spirit  in  its  holy  fire  ! 


THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL. 

"  Is  there  no  humble  spot  within  thy  walls, 
In  lonely  sanctity  well  guarded  still, 
Where  I  may  enter  of  mine  own  free  will, 
And  feel  the  subtle  warmth  that  in  it  falls  ?" 

He  ceased.     No  answer  came,  nor  echo  fell 
To  blend  the  words  of  passion  in  its  tone ; 
But  chilling  silence  reign'd  on  Nature's  throne, 

And  all  of  Nature's  voices  owned  the  spell. 

The  sneer  majestic  on  the  ramparts  high, 

Seemed  deep'ning  to  the  wrinkles  of  a  smile ; 
And  scornful  laughter,  shaken  out  the  while 

From  lordly  pennants,  floated  mocking  by. 

Then  turn'd  the  stranger  from  that  Palace  fair, 
A  baneful  arrow  rankling  in  his  heart, 
That  bled  afresh  when  he  would  fain  depart, 

And  slowly  poison'd  while  he  lingered  there. 

Now,  mark  the  change  a  single  year  may  bring  ! 
A  single  year,  that,  rolPd  by  tyrant  Time, 
May  crush  a  virtue  and  extend  a  crime — 

Give  birth  to  peasant,  and  the  grave  a  king. 


18  TEE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL. 

In  starless  blackness,  at  the  midnight  stroke, 
While  day  was  treading  on  the  heels  of  day, 
A  soul  of  honor  shed  its  chains  of  clay, 

And  from  its  prison-house  in  silence  broke. 

Up  to  the  skies  it  took  its  fearless  course. 
Where  volley'd  thunder  welcomed  its  return, 
And  linked  lightning  never  ceased  to  burn 

Around  the  foot-prints  of  its  pallid  horse. 

But,  in  a  chamber  of  the  Palace  fair, 
A  kingly  form  was  motionless  and  still 
As  faultless  statue  cut  from  marble  chill, 

And  gazing  upward  with  a  leaden  stare. 

The  Palace  Beautiful !     No  longer  bright, 
Save  where  a  single  window  casement  shed 
An  inward  gloom  upon  the  fallen  head — 

An  outward  ray  upon  the  sullen  night. 

And  in  the  storm  there  fell  upon  the  ear 

An  echo  terrible  and  full  of  woe, 

That  through  the  haunted  darkness  seem'd  to  go, 
The  disembodied  Spirit  of  a  Tear. 


THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL.  19 

Morn  came  at  last ;  and  not  the  morn  that  breaks 

To  gladden  nature  with  another  joy ; 

But  such  a  morn  as  feels  the  night's  alloy, 
And  half  of  darkness,  half  of  light  partakes. 

The  Palace  Beautiful,  without  a  lord, 

Look'd  down  to  where  its  flow'ry  courtiers,  shorn 
Of  all  their  glories  in  the  sunshine  worn, 

Had  spurn'd  the  velvet  and  unsheath'd  the  sword  ! 

The  Master  gone  !     The  will  that  govern' d  all, 
Thrown  from  its  lofty  pedestal  of  might, 
To  lose  its  vital  essence  in  a  night, 

And  yield  the  rohe  of  empire  for  a  pall. 

O  Palace  fair  !  the  sword  that  sprang  for  thee 
Will  never  more  maintain  thy  queenly  state  ; 
And  soon  the  bold  invaders  at  thy  gate 

Will  tame  the  spirit  of  thy  majesty  ! 

Another  year  sped  on.  The  lonely  man — 
The  trav'ler  stood  again  before  the  door, 
With  head  inclined,  and  eyelids  brimming  o'er 

With  tears,  that  kiss'd  and  wedded  as  they  ran. 


20  THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL. 

Not  then  those  eyes  required  a  hand  to  shade ; 
For  death  had  gather'd  all  the  sunshine  down 
To  fill  the  measure  of  an  angel's  crown, 

When  he  his  visit  to  the  master  paid. 

Again  the  stranger  spoke  ;  but  not  in  wrath, 
Nor  envy,  impotent  to  move  the  soul, 
But  in  such  tender,  wooing  words  as  roll 

When  sorrow  lingers  on  the  lover's  path : 

"  O  Palace  Beautiful !  in  all  thy  gloom, 

Far  lovelier  to  my  eyes  than  e'er  before, 
Take  thou  the  pallid  sentry  from  thy  door, 
And  bury  all  thy  shadows  in  the  tomb. 

"  Why  keep  the  sable  banner  on  thy  wall, 
To  show  the  world  how  desolate  thou  art  ? 
Can  it  restore  new  life  unto  the  heart 
That  once  could  count  its  throbbings  in  thy  hall 

"  Be  mine,  O  Palace  Beautiful,  the  task 
To  win  the  fickle  sunshine  back  to  thee, 
And  well  defend  thy  native  majesty. 
A  home  in  thee  is  all  the  right  I  ask." 


THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL.  21 

A  note  of  trembling  melody  lie  heard — 
Not  like  the  artful  breathing  of  the  lyre, 
Nor  like  a  sound  that  sets  the  soul  on  fire  ; 

But  like  the  timid  whisper  of  a  bird. 

Softly,  as  roll  the  fleecy  clouds  of  Spring, 
The  gates  turn'd  inward,  only  to  disclose 
That  'neath  the  dome  a  mighty  mirror  'rose, 

Reflecting  back  the  image  of  a  king ! 

'Twas  He  ! — the  trav'ler,  but  no  more  alone  ; 
For  Love  was  with  him,  and  the  love  of  man 
Is  God  within  him,  shaping  ev'ry  plan 

To  rear,  preserve,  and  beautify  His  throne. 

« 

As  by  the  magic  of  a  wizard's  staff, 

A  sea  of  roses  shut  the  gates  behind ; 

And  on  the  fragrant  billows  of  the  wind, 
There  roll'd  the  silv'ry  fabric  of  a  laugh. 

Then  fell  the  blush  of  sunset  on  the  place ; 
And,  by  the  storm  of  sorrow  un defiled, 
Approving  Nature  caught  the  glow  and  smiled, 

While  yet  the  tear-drops  glitter'd  on  her  face. 


SPRING  VIOLETS  UNDER  THE  SNOW. 


VTOTHING  is  lost  that  has  beauty  to  save, 
^      Purity  rises  in  flow'rs  from  the  grave, 
And  from  the  blossoms  that  fade  on  the  tree 
Falleth  the  seed  of  the  blossoms  to  be ; 
Life  unto  Death  is  mortality's  growth, 
Something  immortal  is  under  them  both : 
Surely  as  cometh  the  Winter,  I  know 
There  are  Spring  violets  under  the  snow.    . 


See  the  old  man  in  his  great  easy-chair, 
Furrow'd  his  forehead  and  white  is  his  hair : 
Yet,  as  he  roguishly  smiles  to  his  dame, 
Pointing  her  eyes  to  the  lovers,  whose  shame 
Makes  them  withdraw  from  the  light  of  the  fire, 
Boyhood,  light-hearted,  reveals  in  the  sire ! 
Surely  as  cometh  life's  Winter,  I  know 
There  are  Spring  violets  under  the  snow. 


SPRING    VIOLETS   UNDER   THE  SNOW.        23 

See  the  old  wife  in  her  kerchief  and  cap, 
Dropping  her  knitting-work  into  her  lap, 
While,  with  a  laugh  that  is  silent,  she  shakes, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  another  peep  takes : 
Years  are  full  forty  since  she  was  a  Miss, 
Yet  she's  a  girl  in  that  overheard  kiss  ! 
Surely  as  cometh  life's  Winter,  I  know 
There  are  Spring  violets  under  the  snow. 

See  the  Old  People,  with  nods  of  delight, 
Stealing  together  away  for  the  night, 
Ever  too  fond  and  too  cunning  to  own 
Why  they  should  leave  the  shy  lovers  alone ; 
But  their  eyes,  twinkling,  are  telling  the  truth — 
Down  in  their  hearts  is  an  answering  youth ! 
Surely  as  cometh  life's  Winter,  I  know 
There  are  Spring  violets  under  the  snow ! 


THE  MAN  OF  FEELING. 


A  LAS  !  for  him  whose  simple  soul, 
A  garden  cherish'd  by  the  sun, 
Lies  open  to  the  public  way, 

For  every  foot  to  tread  upon. 

And  whether  in  a  wanton  mood, 

Or  by  a  selfish  purpose  led, 
Each  passer  tramples  on  the  verge 

Where  all  his  tenderest  feelings  spread. 

And  then  his  wounded  nature  feels — 
What  his  alone  can  understand, 

The  flow'r  that's  broken  by  the  heel, 
Can  ne'er  be  mended  by  the  hand. 

From  gentle  instinct  taught  to  love 
The  meanest  creature  of  his  race, 

He  took  his  image  of  the  World 
When  God  was  shining  in  his  face  j 


THE  MAN  OF  FEELING.  25 

Nor  dream'd  that  earth  could  wear  a  Cross, 

Save,  as  it  fell,  while  glory  blazed, 
The  noonday  Shadow  of  a  Christ, 

With  arms  in  Benediction  raised. 

And  not  'till  bleeding  from  the  world, 

He  learns  the  heartless  world  it  is ; 
That  ruder  souls  the  gentler  crush, 

And  all  are  rude  to  such  as  his. 

Though  turning  to  his  fellow-men, 

With  hope  in  each  a  friend  to  meet, 
He  stands  as  lonely  as  a  tree 

Upon  a  city's  stony  street ; 

For,  ever  to  the  open  hand, 

The  perfect  trust,  the  guileless  air, 
Not  even  Charity  is  kind, 

And  Manhood  doubts  a  Man  is  there. 

Then,  shrinking  stricken  to  himself, 

With  silent  grieving  desolate, 
He  lives  a  coward  to  the  wind, 

And  fears  the  things -he  cannot  hate. 


26  THE  MAN  OF  FEELING. 

There  is  a  sinking  of  his  soul, 
A  sadden  shock  of  .age  and  care; 

As  one  who  in  a  mirror  sees 

The  first  gray  streaking  of  his  hair. 

And  growing  tremulous  with  dread 
Of  what  one  word,  one  look  may  be, 

He  dares  not  seek  to  make  a  friend, 
Lest  love  should  die  of  jealousy. 

Thus,  friendless  and  alone  he  goes, 
To  none  a  prize,  to  all  a  prey ; 

Like  water  dripping  on  a  rock, 
By  trifles  wears  his  life  away. 

And  yet  there  is  an  inward  light 

To  keep  his  soul  from  growing  dark, 

Through  which  his  nature's  incense  breaks, 
Like  music  breaking  from  the  lark ; 

For,  though  the  world  sweeps  coldly  by, 
Or  pauses  but  to  cast  a  dart, 

There's  something  cannot  chill  nor  die — 
His  grand  simplicity  of  heart ! 


AGE  BLUNTLY  CONSIDERED. 

A  S  Age  advances,  ails  and  aches  attend, 

Backs  builded  broadest  burdensomely  bend ; 
Cuttingly  cruel  comes  consuming  Care, 
Dealing  delusions,  drivelry,  despair. 

Empty  endeavor  enervately  ends, 
Fancy  forlornly  feigns  forgotten  friends ; 
Gout,  grimly  griping,  gluttonously  great, 
Hastens  humanity's  hard-hearted  hate. 

Intentions  imbecile  invent  ideas 
Justly  jocunding  jolly  jokers'  jeers : 
Knowledge — keen  kingdom  knurlyably  known — 
Lingers,  lamenting  life's  long  lasting  loan. 

Mammonly  mumming,  magnifying  motes, 
Nurtures  numb  Nature's  narrowest  nursery  notes, 
Opens  old  Ogre's  odious  offering  out — 
Peevish  punctilio,  parrot-pining  pout. 


28  AGE  BLUNTLY  CONSIDERED. 

Qualinishly  querying,  quarrelsomely  quaint, 
Rousing  rife  ridicule's  repealed 'restraint; 
Speaking  soft  silliness — such  shallow  show, 
That  tottering  toysters,  tickled,  titter  too. 

Useless,  ungainly,  unbelov'd,  unblest, 
Virtue's  vague  visor,  vice's  veiling  vest, 
Wheezingly  whimpering,  wanting  wisdom,  wit, 
'Xistence,  'Xigent,  'Xclaims — 'Xit ! 

Youths,  you're  yclept  youth's  youngest ;  yet  you'll  yield 
Zestless  zig-zaggers,  zanyable  zealed. 


ASPASIA. 

TTKDER  the  branches  whose  blossoms  are  fire, 
Gathering  thrones  in  her  glances — 

Queen  of  the  lilies  that  nod  to  the  rose, 
Catching  its  color  by  chances ; 

Treading  a  universe  under  her  feet, 

Lo !  where  the  goddess  advances. 

Pearls  are  asleep  in  the  waves  of  her  hair, 
Gems  on  her  bosom  are  dreaming ; 

And  from  the  smouldering  worlds  of  her  eyes 
Glories  of  ruin  are  gleaming — 

Glories  that  glow  from  the  ashes  of  hearts, 
With  a  smile  over  them  beaming ! 

Rich  is  the  fabric  that  falls  to  her  feet, 

Rare  are  its  labyrinth  laces ; 
Deep  in  their  brightness  the  jewels  her  heart 

Throbs  into  meteor  races, 
Each  in  its  beauty  the  torch  of  a  grace, 

Lighting  the  temple  of  graces. 


30  ASPA8IA. 

This  is  her  Court  in  the  Kingdom  of  Night, 
Princes  are  bending  before  her ; 

Nobles  and  warriors  wall  her  around, 
Ready  to  serve  and  adore  her ; 

Even  the  sage  breathes  the  incense  of  love 
Cast  by  her  majesty  o'er  her. 

Is  she  not  sanctified  ?     Mark  how  the  priest, 
Heedless  of  all  that  he  preaches, 

Tinder  the  shallow  disguise  of  the  world 
Wooes  her  with  silvery  speeches ! 

He  is  a  man,  and  the  heart  in  his  breast 
Lives  on  the  lesson  she  teaches. 

What  is  the  sternness  and  strength  of  a  man, 
Barbarous,  monkish,  or  knightly, 

When  the  Imperial  Passion  commands, 
Ruleth  it  ever  so  lightly  ? 

Naught  but  a  tottering  wall  of  defence 
Rendering  weakness  unsightly ! 

Beauty  may  dwell  in  the  statue  of  stone, 

As  in  the  living  Circassian ; 
But  in  the  beautiful  sculpture  of  God 

Is  there  what  no  man  can  fashion — 


ASPASIA.  31 

Life  that  is  light  bringing  blindness  to  men, 
From  the  high  altar  of  Passion. 

Here  is  the  priestess  and  here  is  the  queen, 

•  Fairest  the  light  can  illumine ; 
Worship'd  by  man  in  the  highest  estates 

Granted  on  earth  to  the  human ; 
But  to  her  altar  and  unto  her  throne 

Cometh  no  form  of  a  woman. 

Woe  to  the  maiden,  or  mother,  or  wife, 

Tempted  by  pity  to  name  her ! 
Even  a  thought  of  the  sisterless  one, 

Charity-given,  would  shame  her ; 
Mothers  may  speak  of  the  motherless  one, 

Only  to  shudder  and  blame  her. 

She,  by  her  mind,  is  too  high  for  her  sex — 

She,  by  her  life,  is  below  it ; 
And  if  the  medium  rests  in  her  soul, 

Woman  disdaineth  to  know  it ; 
Charity,  mark'd  by  a  sneer  of  the  world, 

Findeth  no  woman  to  show  it ! 

She,  in  Philosophy's  fathomless  spring, 
Bathed  her  unsatisfied  spirit ; 


32  ASPASIA. 

Yearning  for  that  which  is  not  of  the  earth. 

Taking  what  seem'd  to  be  near  it, 
Ere  to  her  youth  came  the  voice  of  the  world, 

Warning  her  spirit  to  fear  it. 

(Life  is  a  harp  for  the  spirit  to  play, 

Given  by  God  to  his  creature ; 
But  by  the  pride  that  is  virtue  in  man, 

Ruling  his  every  feature, 
All  of  its  music  is  given  to  Art — 

None  to  the  throbbings  of  Nature.) 

By  the  FIRST  IMPULSE  she  lives  and  is  lost ! 

Sacrificed  unto  the  error, 
That  to  the  earliest  good  in  the  soul 

All  the  round  world  is  a  mirror ; 
Virtue  the  motive  of  every  delight, 

Vice  a  perpetual  terror. 

Pure  at  the  first,  she  were  pure  at  the  last, 
Had  her  mind's  purity  met  her ; 

But  it  was  Falsehood,  in  Honor's  disguise, 
That  with  illusions  beset  her, 

Feigning  a  moment  the  truth  of  her  soul, 
Only  to  rivet  its  fetter. 


ASPASIA.  33 

Think  of  her,  then,  in  her  womanless  court, 

Maidens  with  sisters  and  mothers ! 
Think  of  her,  lonely,  with  hundreds  around, 

Maidens  with  fathers  and  brothers ! 
Think  of  her,  truthful  and  pure  in  herself, 

Lost  by  the  falsehood  of  others ! 

Under  the  branches  whose  blossoms  are  fire, 

Gathering  thrones  in  her  glances — 
Queen  of  the  lilies  that  nod  to  the  rose, 

Catching  its  color  by  chances ; 
Treading  a  universe  under  her  feet, 

Lo  !  where  the  goddess  advances. 
2* 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADIERS. 

npHE  Southern  hosts  are  up  in  arms  ! 

The  olive  branch  no  longer  charms, 
And  over  cities,  prairies,  farms, 

The  martial  trumpet  rings. 
A  single  spark  has  lit  the  North, 
Her  hearts  of  valor  hurry  forth, 
And,  with  a  soldier's  spirit  wroth, 

Each  man  to  harness  springs.- 

From  East  to  West  the  cry  has  gone  : 
The  pledge  is  broke,  the  sword  is  drawn, 
And  now  the  moment  dread  comes  on, 

That  all  our  honor  proves. 
A  score  of  millions  hear  the  cry  ; 
Six  hundred  thousand  marching  by, 
Give  back,  in  thunder  tones,  reply  : 

Our  banner  southward  moves  ! 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADIERS.         35 

Then  pours  the  hurrying  tide  of  war, 
The  billowy  smoke,  the  cannon's  roar, 
The  bayonet's  lightning-flash  before, 

The  Standard's  sunset  glow ; 
And  over  all  the  tumult  comes 
The  trumpet's  bray,  the  roll  of  drums ; 
While,  from  the  lowland  distance  hums 

The  echo  of  the  foe. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow  !  the  charge  begins ; 
JS"ow  God  uphold  the  arm  that  wins, 
And  look  with  mercy  on  the  sins 

Of  those  who  fall  to-day ; 
A  glorious  stake  is  in  the  fight, 
A  nation's  life,  a  nation's  right ; 
And  where  her  champions'  blows  alight, 

There  let  the  vanquish'd  pray  ! 

A  sudden  pause,  a  sudden  hush  ; 
The  mighty  boulder,  launch'd  to  crush, 
Hangs,  like  a  feather  on  a  bush, 

In  fathomless  suspense : 
As  though  an  avalanche,  half  hurl'd 
Upon  a  nether  Alpine  world, 
Were  caught,  where  first  it  downward  swirFd, 

Upon  a  saving  fence  ! 


36         CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADIERS. 

In  mid-career  the  armies  stand, 
Each  by  the  other's  breathing  fann'd, 
While  all  around  them  smokes  the  land 

Their  iron  heels  have  trod. 
The  gunner's  lanyard  slacken'd  droops, 
The  horseman  to  his  sabre  stoops, 
The  hostile  captains  eye  their  troops, 

With  many  a  thoughtful  nod. 

To  this  the  strife  has  come  at  last, 
That,  in  the  texture  of  the  blast, 
A  mighty  flaw  should  overcast 

The  rushing  Ship  of  State, 
And  hold  her  in  a  leaden  calm, 
While  her  defenders  found  the  balm 
To  keep  her  safe  from  ev'ry  harm, 

Or  else,  defer  her  fate. 

Deep  quiet  reigns  along  the  lines, 

The  midnight  frowns,  the  noonday  shines  ; 

But  still  Bellona's  great  designs 

Are  left  to  other  men  ; 
For,  in  a  field  where  gods  might  choose 
To  sip  the  fountains  of  the  dews, 
The  Brigadiers,  in  fearless  crews, 

Renew  the  strife  again. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADIERS.        37 

They  meet  the  foemen  face  to  face — 
Who  loses  now  shall  win  disgrace  ; 
For  on  his  strength  to  keep  his  place 

His  land's  salvation  hangs ! — 
They  scan  each  other  through  the  glass, 
From  rank  to  rank  the  watchwords  pass, 
Then,  pressing  forward  in  a  mass, 

The  goblet  mortar  clangs  ! 

"  Load  up  with  bricks  !"  the  leader  said, 

Ere  half  the  earliest  round  had  sped, 
"  And  truly  aim  at  every  head 

Above  the  table-land." 
Their  duty  well  the  gunners  know, 
The  volley 'd  corks  at  angles  go, 
And  pours  the  grape  with  such  a  flow 
No  mortal  man  can  stand. 

Lo  !  Sherry  flashes  to  the  front, 

With  Bourbon's  self  to  share  the  brunt, 

And  valiant  Southside,  old  and  blunt, 

Stands  out  to  meet  them  there. 
Now  hasten  !  hasten  while  ye  can, 
Old  burly,  clumsy  Rhenish  man  ; 
For  Heidsick  comes  to  lead  the  van, 

And  falter  then  who  dare  ! 


38         CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADIERS. 

Cabana's  battery 's  in  reserve, 

With  steady  fire  our  charge  to  nerve ; 

Who  would  a  coward  be,  and  swerve 

Before  the  lighted  match  ? 
Already  reels  the  foe,  struck  dumb, 
Scarce  knowing  whence  his  wounds  have  come  ; — 
One  other  charge,  Imperial  Mumm, 

And  over  goes  a  batch  ! 

Now  from  Regalia's  lengthy  nines, 
Rolls  up  the  smoke  in  circling  lines, 
And  half  concealing,  half  defines 

Full  many  staggering  kforms  ; 
And,  badly  wounded  in  the  neck, 
With  naught  their  dying  falls  to  check, 
The  Brigadiers  go  down  in  wreck, 

As  ships  go  down  in  storms. 

When  brightly  beams  the  morning  sun, 
And  Peace,  by  doughty  vict'ry  won, 
Once  more  the  Nation  rests  upon, 

Like  sunlight  on  the  grass  ; 
Columbia,  through  her  happy  tears, 
Shall  thank  her  gallant  Brigadiers, 
And  then  go  on,  for  years  and  years, 

To  tax — the  broken  glass. 


ALONE. 

rrHREE  stalwart  sons  old  Sweyn,  the  Saxon,  had, 
Brave,  hardy  lads  for  battle,  or  the  chase ; 

And  though,  like  peasant,  barbarously  clad, 

Each  wore  the  Nameless  Noble  in  his  face : 

One  o'er  another  rose  their  heads  in  tiers, 

Steps  for  their  father's  honorable  years. 

One  night  in  Autumn  sat  they  round  the  fire, 
In  the  rude  cabin  bountiful  of  Home ; 

Mild  by  the  rev'rence  due  from  child  to  sire, 
Bold  in  the  manhood  unto  mast'ry  come ; 

Working  their  tasks  o'er  huntsman's  forest  gear, 

Loos'ni'ng  the  bow  and  sharpening  the  spear. 

Lost  in  his  thoughts,  old  Sweyn,  the  Saxon,  stood, 
Leaning  in  silence  'gainst  the  chimney  stone ; 

Staring  unconscious  at  the  blazing  wood, 

Steep'd  in  the  mood  of  mind  he  oft  had  known ; 

As  an  old  tree  whose  stoutest  branches  shake, 

Scarce  from  their  vigor  sign  of  life  will  take. 


40  ALONE. 

Athol,  the  bearded,  with  his  bow  had  done, 
Alfred,  the  nimble,  laid  his  spear  aside, 

Edric,  the  fairest,  tiring  of  his  fun, 

Left  the  old  hound  to  slumber  on  his  hide ; 

Yet  was  their  sire  like  one  whose  features  seem 

Shaded  by  sleep,  and  all  their  light  a  dream. 

Bold  in  the  favor  of  the  eldest  born, 

Athol,  for  both  his  younger  brothers,  spoke : 
"  Father,  the  fox  is  prowling  in  the  corn, 

And  hear  the  night-owl  hooting  from  the  oak ; 

Let  us  to  couch."     But  Sweyn  had  raised  his  head, 
And  thus,  unwitting  what  had  pass'd,  he  said : — 

"  See,  from  my  breast,  I  draw  this  chain  of  gold" — 

Fair  in  the  firelight  royally  it  shone, — 
"  This  for  his  honor  that  shall  best  unfold 

Who,  of  all  creatures,  is  the  most  Alone ; 
Take  him  from  palace,  monast'ry,  or  cot, 
Loving  unloved,  forgetting,  or  forgot." 

Then  Athol  spoke,  with  thoughtful  tone  and  look ; 

"  He  is  the  loneliest — most  Alone  of  all, 
Who,  in  a  skiff  to  the  mid-seas  forsook, 

Finds  not  an  echo,  even,  to  his  call ; 


ALONE.  41 

If  Echo  lived,  not  all  Alone  were  he ; 
But  there's  no  echo  on  the  solemn  Sea !" 

And  Alfred  next : — "  But  lonelier,  brother,  far, 
The  wretch  that  flies  a  just  avenging  rod  • 

To  him  all  scenes  are  wastes,  a  foe  the  star, 

All  earth  he's  lost,  yet  knows  no  heav'n,  no  God ; 

Most  Lonely  he,  who,  making  man  his  foe, 

Unto  man's  Maker  dareth  not  to  go !" 

Thus  spoke  the  lads,  with  wit  beyond  their  years ; 

And  yet  the  old  man  held  his  beard  and  sigh'd, 
As  one  who  gains  the  form  his  wishing  wears, 

But  misses  still  a  something  most  denied ; 
Upon  his  youngest  eager  looks  he  turned, 
And  Edric's  cheek  with  grace  ingenuous  burned. 

"  I  think,  my  father" — and  his  tones  were  low, 
"  That  lonelier  yet,  and  most  Alone,  is  he, 

Scarce  taught,  though  crowds  are  leading,  where  to  go, 
And  one  face  missing  can  no  other  see ; 

Though  all  the  Norman's  court  around  him  moves, 

He  is  Alone  apart  from  Her  he  loves." 


42  ALONE. 

A  hush  fell  on  them.     Then,  with  loving  air 
And  all  the  touching  romance  of  the  Old, 

The  hoary  father  kiss'd  young  Edric's  hair, 

And  o'er  his  shoulders  threw  the  chain  of  gold ; 

Then  fell  upon  his  darling's  neck  and  cried : 
"  I  have  been  Lonely  since  thy  Mother  died !" 


AVENGED. 

OD'S  scales  of  Justice  hang  between 

The  deed  Unjust  and  the  end  Unseen, 
And  the  sparrow's  fall  in  the  one  is  weigh'd 
By  the  Lord's  own  Hand  in  the  other  laid. 

In  the  prairie  path  to  our  Sunset  gate, 
In  the  flow'ring  heart  of  a  new-born  State, 
Are  the  hopes  of  an  old  man's  waning  years, 
'Neath  headstones  worn  by  an  old  man's  tears. 

When  the  bright  sun  sinks  in  the  rose-lipp'd  West, 
His  last  red  ray  is  the  headstone's  crest ; 
And  the  mounds  he  laves  in  a  crimson  flood, 
Are  a  Soldier's  wealth  baptized  in  blood  ! 


44  AVENGED. 

Do  ye  ask  who  rear'd  those  headstones  there, 
And  crown' d  with  thorns  a  sire's  grey  hair  ? 
And  by  whom  the  Land's  great  debt  was  paid 
To  the  Soldier  old,  in  the  graves  they  made  ? 

Shrink,  Pity !  shrink,  at  the  question  dire ; 
And,  Honor,  burn  in  a  blush  of  fire  ! 
Turn,  Angel,  turn  from  the  page  thine  eyes, 
Or  the  Sin,  once  written,  never  dies  ! 

They  were  men  of  the  Land  he  had  fought  to  save 
From  a  foreign  foe  that  had  cross' d  the  wave, 
When  his  sunlit  youth  was  a  martial  song, 
And  shook  a  throne  as  it  swell'd  along. 

They  were  sons  of  the  clime  whose  soft,  warm  breath 
Is  the  soul  of  earth,  and  a  life  in  death ; 
Where  the  Summer  dreams  on  the  couch  of  Spring, 
And  the  songs  of  birds  through  the  whole  year  ring ; 

Where  the  falling  leaf  is  the  cup  that  grew 
To  catch  the  gems  of  the  new  leaf's  dew, 
And  the  winds  that  through  the  vine-leaves  creep 
Are  the  sighs  of  Time  in  a  pleasant  sleep. 


A  VENGED.  45 

But  there  lurk'd  a  taint  in  the  clime  so  blest, 
Like  a  serpent  coil'd  in  a  ring-dove's  nest, 
And  the  human  sounds  to  the  ear  it  gave, 
Were  the  clank  of  chains  on  a  low-brow' d  Slave  ! 

The  Soldier  old,  at  his  sentry-post, 
Where  the  sun's  last  trail  of  light  is  lost, 
Beheld  the  shame  of  the  Land  he  loved, 
And  the  old  old  love  in  his  bosom  moved. 

He  cried  to  the  land,  Beware,  Beware 

Of  the  symbol' d  Curse  in  the  Bondman  there ! 

And  a  prophet's  soul  in  fire  came  down 

To  live  in  the  voice  of  old  John  Brown. 

He  cried  ;  and  the  ingrate  answer  came 
In  words  of  steel  from  a  tongue  of  flame  ; 
They  dyed  his  hearth  in  the  blood  of  kin, 
And  his  dear  ones  fell  for  the  Nation's  Sin  ! 

Oh,  matchless  deed  !  that  a  fiend  might  scorn, 
Oh,  deed  of  shame  !  for  a  world  to  mourn ; 
A  Soldier's  pay  in  his  blood  most  dear, 
And  a  land  to  mock  at  a  Father's  tear  ! 


~ 
46  A  VENGED. 

Is't  strange  that  the  tranquil  soul  of  age 
Was  turn'd  to  strife  in  a  madman's  rage  ? 
Is't  strange  that  the  cry  of  blood  did  seem 
Like  the  roll  of  drums  in  a  martial  dream  ? 

Is't  strange  the  clank  of  the  Helot's  chain 
Should  drive  the  Wrong  to  the  old  man's  brain, 
To  fire  his  heart  with  a  santon's  zeal, 
And  mate  his  arm  to  the  Soldier's  steel  ? 

The  bane  of  Wrong  to  its  depth  had  gone, 

And  the  sword  of  Eight  from  its  sheath  was  drawn ; 

But  the  cabin' d  Slave  heard  not  his  cry, 

And  the  old  man  arm'd  him  but  to  die. 

Ye  may  call  him  Mad,  that  he  did  not  quail 
When  his  stout  blade  broke  on  the  unblest  mail ; 
Ye  may  call  him  Mad,  that  he  struck  alone, 
And  made  the  land's  dark  Curse  his  own  ; 

But  the  Eye  of  God  look'd  down  and  saw 

A  just  life  lost  by  an  unjust  law ; 

And  black  was  the  day  with  God's  own  frown 

When  the  Southern  Cross  was  a  martyr's  Crown ! 


AVENGED.  47 

Apostate  clime  !  the  ^lood  then  shed, 

Fell  thick  with  vengeance  on  thy  head, 

To  weigh  it  down  'neath  the  coming  rod 

When  thy  red  right  hand  should  be  stretch'd  to  God. 

Behold  the  price  of  the  life  ye  took  ; 
At  the  death  ye  gave  'twas  a  world  that  shook ; 
And  the  despot  deed  that  one  heart  broke, 
From  their  slavish  sleep  a  Million  woke  ! 

Not  all  alone  did  the  victim  fall, 

Whose  wrongs  first  brought  him  to  your  thrall ; 

The  old  man  play'd  a  Nation's  part, 

And  ye  struck  your  blow  at  a  Nation's  heart ! 

The  freemen-host  is  at  your  door, 

And  a  Voice  goes  forth  with  a  stern  "  No  More  !" 

To  the  deadly  Curse,  whose  swift  redeem 

Was  the  vision'd  thought  of  John  Brown's  dream. 

To  the  Country's  Wrong,  and  the  Country's  stain, 
It  shall  prove  as  the  scythe  to  the  yielding  grain  ; 
And  the  dauntless  pow'r  to  spread  it  forth, 
Is  the  free-born  soul  of  the  chainless  North. 


48  A  VENGED. 

From  the  East,  and  West,  and  North  they  come, 
To  the  bugle's  call  and  the  roll  of  drum  ; 
And  a  form  walks  viewless  by  their  side — 
A  form  that  was  born  when  the  Old  Man  died  ! 

The  Soldier  old  in  his  grave  may  rest, 
Afar  with  his  dead  in  the  prairie  West ; 
But  a  red  ray  falls  on  the  headstone  there, 
Like  a  God's  reply  to  a  Soldier's  pray'r. 

He  may  sleep  in  peace  'neath  the  greenwood  pall, 
For  the  land's  great  heart  hath  heard  his  call ; 
And  a  people's  Will  and  a  people's  Might, 
Shall  right  the  Wrong  and  proclaim  the  Right. 

The  foe  may  howl  at  the  fiat  just, 
And  gnash  his  fangs  in  the  trodden  dust ; 
But  the  battle  leaves  his  bark  a  wreck, 
And  the  Freeman's  heel  is  on  his  neck. 

Not  all  in  vain  is  the  lesson  taught, 

That  a  great  soul's  Dream  is  the  world's  New  Thought ; 

And  the  Scaffold  mark'd  with  a  death  sublime 

Is  the  Throne  ordain'd  for  the  coming  time. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  EPITAPH. 

E  woodlands  caught  the  airy  fire  upon  their  vernal 

plumes, 

And  echo'd  back  the  waterfall's  exultant,  trilling  laugh, 
And  through  the  branches  fell  the  light  in  slender  golden 

blooms 
To  write  upon  the  sylvan  stream  the  Naiad's  epitaph. 

On    either  side  the  sleeping  vale  the  mountains  swell'd 

away, 

Each,  bred  of  Nature's  lore,  a  grand  and  solitary  sage ; 
And  brightly  in  the  teeming  plain  the  river  went  astray, 
Like  an  exhaustless  vein  of  Youth  wound  through  a  green 

Old  Age. 

8 


50  THE  SOLDIERS  EPITAPH. 

The  turtle  woo'd  his  gentle  mate,  where  thickest  hung  the 

boughs, 
While  round  them  fell  the  blossoms  pluck' d  by  robins' 

wanton  bills ; 
And  on  its  wings  the  zephyr  caught  the  music   of  his 

vows, 
To  waft  a  strain  responsive  to  the  chorus  of  the  hills. 

'Twas  in  a  nook  beside  the  stream  where  grapes  in  clusters 

fell, 
And  'twixt  the  trees  the  swaying  vines  were  lost  in  leafy 

showers, 
That  fauns  and  satyrs,  tamed  to  rest  beneath  the  noonday 

spell, 

Gave    silent  ear  and  witness    to    the    meeting   of    the 
flowers. 

The  glories  of  the  fields  were  there   in  summer's  bright 

array, 
The  virgins  of  the  temple  vast  where  Noon  to  Ev'ning 

nods, 

To  crown  as  queen  of  all  the  rest  whose  bosom  should  dis 
play 
The  signet  of  a  mission  blest,  the  cipher  of  the  gods. 


THE   SOLDIERS  EPITAPH.  51 

The  royal  Lily's  sceptred  cup  besought  an  airy  lip, 

The  Rose's  stooping  coyness  told  the  bee  was  at  her 

heart, 
While  all  the  other  sisters  round,  with   many  a   dainty 

dip, 

Sought  jewels  hidden  in  the  grass,  and  waved  its  spears 
apart. 

"  We  seek  a  queen,"  the  Lily  said,  "  and  she  shall  wear  the 

crown 
Who  to  the  Mission  of  the  Blest  the  fairest  right  shall 

prove ; 
For  unto  her,   whoe'er   she    be,   has    come   in    sunlight 

down 

The   badge   of   Nature's   Royalty,    from    angel    hands 
above. 

"  I   go   to   deck   the   wreath  that   binds   a  fair,  imperial 

brow, 
Whose  whiteness  shall  not  be  the  less  that  mine  is  purer 

still ; 

For  though  a  band  of  sparkling  gems  is  set  upon  it  now, 
'Twill  be  the  fairer  that  the  Church  in  me  beholds  her 
will." 


52  THE   SOLDIERS   EPITAPH. 

"  I  claim  a  loyal  suitor's  touch,"  the  Rose  ingenuous  said, 
"  And  he  will  choose  me  when  he  seeks  the  bow'r  of 

lady  fair, 
To  match  me,  with  a  smile,  against  her  cheek's  betraying 

red, 

And  place  me,  with  a  kiss,  within  the  shadows  of  her 
hair." 

And  next  the  proud  Camellia  spoke :    "  Where  festal  music 

swells, 
And  solemn  priest,  with  gown  and  book,  a  knot  eternal 

ties, 

I  go  to  hold  the  veil   of  her  who   hears  her   marriage- 
bells, 
And  pledges  all  her  life  unto  the  Love  that  never  dies." 

The  Laurels  raised  their  glowing  heads,  and  into  language 

broke : 
"  'Tis  ours  to  honor  gallant  deeds  that  awe  a  crouching 

world ; 
We  rest  upon  the  warrior's  helm  when  fades  the  battle's 

smoke, 

And  bloom  perennial  on  the  shield  that  back  the  foeman 
hurl'd." 


THE  SOLDIERS  EPITAPH.  53 

And  other  sisters  of  the  field,  the  woodland,  and  the  vale, 
Each  told  the  story  of  her  work,  and  glorified  her  quest ; 

But  none  of  all  the  noble  ones  had  yet  reveal'd  the  tale, 
That  taught  them  from  the  gods  she  wore  the  signet  in 
her  breast. 

At  length  the  zephyr  raised  a  leaf,  the  lowliest  of  the  low, 
And  there,  behold  a  Violet  the  Spring  let  careless  slip ; 
Beyond  its  season  blooming  there  where  newer  beauties 

grow, 

Enshriried  like  an  immortal  thought  that  lives  beyond 
the  lip. 

"  We  greet  thy  presence,  little  one,"  the  graceful  Lily  said, 
And  quiver'd  with   a  silent  laugh   behind   her  snowy 

screen, 
"  Upraise  unto  the  open  sun  thy  modest  little  head ; 

For  here,  perchance,  in  thee  at  last  the  Flow'rs  have 
found  their  queen." 

A  tremor  shook  the   timid  flower,  and  soft  her  answer 
came ; 

"  'Tis  but  a  simple  duty  left  to  one  so  small  as  I ; 
And  yet  I  would  not  yield  it  up  for  all  the  higher  fame 

Of  nodding  on  a  hero's  helm,  or  catching  beauty's  eye. 


54  THE   SOLDIERS  EPITAPH. 

"  I  go  to  where  an  humble  mound  uprises  in  a  field, 

To  mark  the  place  of  one  whose  life  was  lost  a  land  to  save  ; 

Where  banner'd  pomp  no  birth  attests,  nor  marbled  sword 

nor  shield ; 
I  go  to  deck,"  the  Violet  said,  "  a  simple  soldier's  grave." 

There  fell  a  hush  on  all  the  flowers ;  but  from  a  distant  grove 
Burst  forth  the  anthem  of  the  birds  in  one  grand  peal  of 

praise ; 
As  though  the  stern  old  Forest's  heart  had  •  found  its  early 

love, 
And  all  of  earth's  sublimity  was  melted  in  its  lays ! 

Then,  as  the  modest  flower  upturn'd  her  blue  eyes  to  the 
sun, 

There  fell  a  dewdrop  on  her  breast,  as  shaken  from  a  tree ; 
The  lowliest  of  the  sisterhood  the  godlike  Crown  had  won ; 

For  hers  it  was  to  consecrate  Truth's  Immortality. 

The   woodlands   caught  the   airy   fire   upon   their  vernal 

plumes, 

And  echo'd  back  the  waterfall's  exultant,  trilling  laugh  ; 
And  through  the  branches  fell  the  light  in  slender  golden 

blooms, 
To  sanctify  the  Violet,  the  Soldier's  Epitaph. 


SUMMER. 

rPHE  fickle  year  is  in  its  golden  prime ; 

The  world  is  dreaming  in  a  hazy  lustre, 
And  round  the  altars  of  our  Summer  cliine, 
The  blushing  roses  cluster. 

Upon  the  mountain  dwells  impassion' d  light, 

And  in  the  valley  sleeps  a  shade  depressing- 
While  fields  of  waving  wealth  enchant  the  sight, 
Like  gold  of  God's  own  blessing. 

The  ploughman  rests  beneath  the  wayside  tree, 
The  stream  curls  slowly  round  the  hoofs  of  cattle  ; 

And  o'er  the  meadow  floats  the  droning  bee, 
Fresh  from  his  flowery  battle. 


56  SUMMER. 

Soft  through  the  Southern  meshes  of  the  vine, 
I  hear  the  birds  unto  each  other  calling ; 

And  in  the  casket  of  the  eglantine 
The  tropic  dews  are  falling. 

Far  in  the  distance  rolls  the  sluggish  sea, 
With  not  enough  of  life  in  all  its  breathing 

To  bid  the  sail  from  its  r.ude  bonds  go  free, 
And  spurn  its  hempen  wreathing. 

On  all  there  rests  a  halo  and  a  hush, 
The  spell  of  poesy  is  on  the  blossom, 

And  Nature's  spirit  slumbers  in  a  blush, 
Caught  from  high  Heaven's  bosom. 

The  Past  and  Future  blend  in  one  sweet  sleep, 

The  world's  a  dream,  and  Care  a  hidden  mummer, 

Whose  tears,  however  sadly  he  may  weep, 
Are  but  the  dews  of  Summer. 


COSMO-BELLA. 

E  roseate  Morning,  with  girdles  of  light, 
Has  lifted  the  hills  from  the  wave  of  the  night, 
And  crown'd  with  a  halo,  and  mantled  in  grey, 
Retires  to  the  mist  and  gives  birth  to  a  day. 

What  bird  shall  be  first  from  his  covert  to  spring, 
And  o'er  the  nativity  earliest  sing  ? 
What  flower  shall  be  first,  in  the  valley  below, 
To  breathe  out  her  dew  in  the  coronal  glow  ? 

No  bird  of  the  mountain,  no  rose  of  the  vale, 
Shall  earliest  carol  and  blush  with  the  tale ; 
For  soft,  through  the  hush  of  God  blessing  the  scene, 
Come  feathery  footfalls,  the  steps  of  a  queen. 

3* 


58  COSMO-BELLA. 

She  comes  !  and  the  purity  lapt  in  the  hour 
Takes  presence  and  form  in  the  beauty  her  dow'r  ; 
She  stands  at  her  mirror,  a  hill-dripping  stream, 
And  all  the  round  world  sees  her  smile  in  a  dream. 

Search  not  through  the  lands,  from  the  Poles  to  the  Zone, 
In  quest  of  the  Beauty  one  nation  may  own ; 
For  all  the  Globe's  gifts  of  perfection  appear 
In  Beauty's  Ideal,  the  Innocence  here. 

The  Sea  hoards  a  gem,  and  the  Sky  garners  rays, 
The  one  is  her  soul,  and  the  others  her  ways ; 
And  Nature,  adoring,  beholds  in  her  eyes 
The  blue  of  the  sea  in  the  light  of  the  skies. 

Her  features,  illumed  with  the  star-beam  of  Peace, 
Are  lined  to  the  Art-worship'd  contour  of  Greece  ; 
And  England's  red  roses,  that  grew  in  her  glance, 
Are  blent  on  her  cheek  with  the  lilies  of  France. 

The  bloom  of  Circassia,  the  grace  of  Cathay, 
Her  lips  move  to  life  and  her  form  gives  a  sway  ; 
And  white  gleams  her  bosom  through  shadows  of  lawn, 
The  snow  of  the  Alps  in  the  pearl  of  the  dawn. 


COSMO-BELLA.  59 

The  first  golden  circle  the  Tyrol  to  light, 
Thrown  off  like  a  ring  from  the  finger  of  night, 
Has  crumbled  to  dust  in  a  summery  air, 
And  scatter'd  a  day  in  the  folds  of  her  hair. 

She  stands  with  one  foot  in  a  thought  of  advance, 
A  foot  on  the  velvet  of  roses  to  dance ; 
And,  jewel'd  with  glittering  dew,  is  display 'd 
The  high-arching  instep  of  Switzerland's  maid. 

Proud  Europe,  soft  Asia,  and  Africa  far, 
She  gathers  your  beauties  wherever  they  are, 
And  wearing  them  modestly,  blesses  our  sight, 
The  Daughter  of  Morning,  an  Angel  of  light. 


THE  FALLS. 


of  water- 
Limpid  water ! 
Sparkling,  darkling,  steeping,  creeping, 
Through  the  grassy  lattice  peeping, 
Like  the  royal  elfin's  eyes, 
When  on  sever'd  leaf  he  lies ; 
Trickling  on  in  blending  balls, 

Flowing, 

Going, 
With  a  murmur,  to  the  Falls. 

ii. 

Kills  of  water — 

Childish  water ! 

SmVring,  quiv'ring,  straying,  playing, 
Where  the  sober  stones  are  staying ; 


THE  FALLS.  61 

Rocking  lilies  up  and  down, 
Bearing  many  a  foamy  crown, 
Through  the  lonely  woodland  halls ; 

Sliding, 

Gliding 
Far  away  to  join  the  Falls. 

in. 

Sheets  of  water, — 

Laughing  water ! 

Hissing,  kissing,  wrinkling,  twinkling, 
With  a  clear,  melodious  tinkling, 
Deep  reflecting  banner  clouds, 
Furl'd  above,  like  vessel  shrouds, 
When  the  shadow  on  them  crawls ; 

Tossing, 

Crossing, 
To  the  music  of  the  Falls. 

IV. 

Folds  of  water — 

Crystal  water ! 

Dashing,  splashing,  whirling,  curling, 
Neptune's  standard  wide  unfurling, 


62  THE  FALLS. 

In  a  charge  a-down  the  hill. 
Where  the  rocks  are  lying  still, 
In  their  moss-encrusted  stalls, 

Jutting, 

Cutting 
Liquid  ribbons  for  the  Falls. 

v. 

Streams  of  water — 

Rushing  water ! 

Roaring,  pouring,  gleaming,  streaming, 
Like  a  mighty  river  dreaming 
Of  a  tempest  on  the  sea, 
Sweeping  down  in  midnight  glee 
From  the  crested  ocean  walls ; 

Boiling, 

Toiling, 
To  the  volume  of  the  Falls. 

VI. 

Floods  of  water — 

Surging  water ! 

Moaning,  groaning,  wailing,  railing, 
While  the  ancient  tree  is  failing, 


THE  FALLS.  63 

Like  a  straying  soldier  lost, 
Bending  to  an  armed  host ; 
Sounding  martial  bugle  calls, 

Gushing, 

Rushing 
To  the  battle  of  the  Falls. 

VII. 

Hosts  of  water — 

Madden' d  water ! 

Rumbling,  tumbling,  sweeping,  leaping, 
Carnival  of  rivers  keeping, 
Breaking,  with  resistless  might, 
From  the  cloud-surrounded  height, 
Form'd  in  sinking  crystal  walls  ; 

Wreathing, 

Seething, 
With  the  thunder  of  the  Falls. 

VIII. 

Veils  of  water — 

Tinted  water ! 

Weaving,  cleaving,  vining,  twining, 
All  a  magic  arch  designing, 


64  THE  FALLS. 

Painted  wifh  the  glowing  dyes, 
Of  Italia's  ev'ning  skies, 
And  of  Fairies'  em'rald  palls ; 

Blending, 

Bending, 
In  a  bow  across  the  Falls. 


ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA. 


TTTESTWARD,  westward  flies  the  eagle,  westward  with 

the  setting  sun, 

To  an  eyrie  growing  golden  in  a  morning  just  begun ; 
Where  the  world  is  new  in  promise  of  a  virgin  nation's 

love, 
And  the  grand  results  of  ages  germs  of  nobler  ages  prove ; 

Where  a  prophecy  of  greatness  runs  through  all  the  soul 

of  youth, 

And  the  miracle  of  Freedom  blesses  in  a  living  truth ; 
Where  the  centuries  unnumber'd  narrow  to  a  single  night, 
And  their  trophies  are  but  planets  wheeling  round  a  central 

light. 


66  ENGLAND    TO    AMERICA. 

Where  the  headlands  breast  the  Ocean  sweeping  round 

creation's  East, 
And  the  prairies  roll  in  blossoms  to  the  Ocean  of   the 

West; 

Where  the  voices  of  the  seas  are  blended  o'er  a  nation's 

birth, 
In  the  harmony  of  Nature's  hymn  to  Liberty  on  earth. 

Land  of  Promise !     Revelation  of  a  royalty  that  springs 
From   a   grander   depth   of  purple  than  the  heritage  of 

kings — 
From  the  inner  purple  cherish'd  at  the  thrones  of  lives 

sublime, 
Cast  in  glorious  consecration  'neath  the  plough  of  Father 

Time- 
Home  of  Freedom,  hope  of  millions  born  and  slain  and  yet 

to  be, 
Shall  the  spirit  of  the  bondless,  caught  from  heaven,  fail  in 

thee? 
Shall   the   watching  world   behold   thee  falling  from  thy 

starry  height  ? 
Like   a  meteor,    in    thine    ending  leaving    only   darker 

night ! 


ENGLAND    TO    AMERICA.  67 

Oil !  my  kinsmen,  Oh !  my  brothers^— fellow-heirs  of  Saxon 

hearts, 

Lo,  the  Eagle  quits  his  eyrie  swifter  than  a  swallow  darts, 
And  the  lurid  flame  of  battle  burns  within  his  angry  eye, 
Glowing  like  a  living  ember  cast  in  vengeance  from  the 

sky. 

At  thy  hearth  a  foe  has  risen,  fiercer  yet  to  burn  and  kill, 
That  he  was  thy  chosen  brother — friend '  no   more,   but 

brother  still ; 

For  the  bitter  tide  of  hatred  deeper  runs  and  fiercer  grows, 
As  the  pleading  voice  of  Nature  addeth  self-reproach  to 

blows. 

Strike !  and  in  the  ghastly  horrors  of  a  fratricidal  war, 
Learn  the  folly  of  thy  wanderings  from  the  guiding  North 
ern  Star; 

What  were  all  thy  gains  and  glories,  to  creation's  fatal  loss 
In  thy  Freedom's  crucifixion  on  the  cruel  Southern  Cross  ? 

Oh !  my  brothers  narrow-sighted — Oh !  my  brothers  slow 

to  hear 

What  the  phantoms  of  the  fallen  ever  whisper  in  the  ear ; 
God  is  just,  and  from  the  ruins  of  the  temple  rent  in  twain 
Rises  up  the  invocation  of  a  warning  breathed  in  vain. 


68  ENGLAND    TO   AMERICA. 

All  thy  pillars  reel  around  thee  from  the  fury  of  the  blow, 
And  the  fires  upon  thine  altars  fade  and  nicker  to  and  fro ; 
Call  the  vigor  of  thy  manhood  into  arms  from  head  to  foot, 
Strike!  and  in  thy  strife  with  error  let  the  blow  be  at  the 
root.' 

So  thy  war  shall  wear  the  glory  of  a  purpose  to  refine 
From  the  dross  of  early  folly  all  the  honor  that  is  thine ; 
So  thine  arms  shall  gather  friendship  to  the  sta&dard  of  a 

cause, 
Blending  in  its  grand  approval  British  hearts  and  British  laws. 

Form  thy  heroes  into  armies  from  the  mart  and  from  the 

field, 
And  their  ranks  shall  stretch  around  thee  in  a  bristling, 

living  shield ; 
Take  the  loyal  beggar's  offer ;  for  the  war  whose  cause  is 

just 
Breathes  the  soul  of  noblest  daring  into  forms  of  meanest 

dust. 

Let  thy  daughters  wreathe  their  chaplets  for  the  foreheads 

of  the  brave, 
Let  thy  daughters  trace  their  lineage  from  the  patriot's 

honor' d  grave ; 


ENGLAND    TO   AMERICA.  69 

Woman's   love   is   built   the   strongest  when  it  rests   on 

woman's  pride, 
Better  be  a  soldier's  widow  than  a  meek  civilian's  bride. 

Onward  let  thine  Eagles  lead  thee,  where  the  livid  Southern 

sun 
Courts  the  incense  for  the  heavens  of  a  righteous  battle 

won ; 
And  the  bright  Potomac,  winding  through  the  fields  unto 

the  sea, 
Shall  no  longer  mark  the  libel- — what  is  bond  and  what  is 

free. 

Rising  from  the  fierce  ordeal,  wash'd  in  blood  and  purified, 
See  the  future  stretch  before  thee,  limitless  on  every  side  ; 
And  in  all  the  deep'ning  envy  of  the  nations  wed  to  sloth, 
Mark  the  record  of  thy  progress,  see   the  mirror  of  thy 
growth. 

Rising  from  thy  purifying,  like  a  giant  from  his  rest, 
Thou  shalt  find  thy  praise  an  echo  from  the  East  unto  the 

West ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thy  love  a  message  from  the  South  unto 

the  North, 
Each  its  past  mistake  of  duty  finding  out  and  casting  forth. 


70  ENGLAND    TO   AMERICA. 

And  thy  States  in  new  communion,  by  the  blood  they  all 

have  shed, 

Shall  be  wedded  to  each  other  in  the  pardon  of  the  dead ; 
Each,  a  scale  of  steel  to  cover  vital  part  from  foreign  wrong, 
All,  a  coat  of  armor  guarding  that  to  which  they  All  belong. 

Thou  shalt  measure  seas  with  navies,  span  the  earth  with 

iron  rails, 
Catch  the  dawn  upon  thy  banner  and  the  sunset  on  thy 

sails ; 

Northern  halls  of  ice  shall  echo  to  thy  sailor's  merry  note, 
And  the  standard  of  thy  soldier  o'er  the  Southern  isle  shall 

float. 

Turning  to  thy  mother,  England,  thou  shalt  find  her  mak 
ing  boast 

Of  the  Great  Republic  westward,  born  of  strength  that  she 
has  lost ; 

And  thy  Saxon  blood  shall  join  ye,  never  to  be  torn  apart, 

Moving  onward  to  the  future,  hand  in  hand  and  heart  to 
heart. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  UNSUNG. 


\["OT  often  man's  nature  revealeth  in  tears 

The  springs  of  affection  o'ergrown  with  his  years 
Not  often  the  rock  of  his  spirit  will  shrink 
To  yield  what  a  world  may  be  dying  to  drink  ; 
Yet  comes  there  to  me,  as  it  ever  will  come, 
Enshrined  in  my  dreams  of  the  altar  at  home, 
One  face  that  I  cry  for — so  sweet  when  it  smiled ! — 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  you  make  me  a  child. 

As  music  that  falls,  with  no  singer  to  word, 
As  rain  blessing  earth  when  no  thunder  is  heard, 
As  light  that  still  lingers  when  set  is  the  sun, 
As  soft  sounds  that  echo  through  silence  begun ; 


72  A    SONG    FOR    THE    UNSUNG. 

So  cometh  the.  trust  of  thy  heart  into  mine, 
So  answers  my  spirit  the  pleadings  of  thine  ; 
So  speak  for  us  both  to  the  witnessing  skies, 
.My  Sister,  my  Sister,  thy  worshiping  eyes. 

My  friend  and  companion  through  years  that  are  gone, 
As  gentle  as  twilight,  as  pure  as  the  dawn, 
The  thought  that's  an  eagle  while  roaming  world-free 
Is  turned  to  a  dove  when  it  nestles  with  thee  ; 
And  folding  its  wings  in  thy  beautiful  truth, 
Renews  on  thy  bosom  its  passionless  youth, 
And  blesses  the  hand  ever  soothing  its  rest — 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  my  truest  and  best. 

When  parents  grew  stern  that  a  child  should  annoy, 
How  fondly  you  pled  for  the  passionate  boy  ; 
How  patiently  bearing  what  angels  might  fret, 
To  soothe  me  in  sickness,  I  cannot  forget. 
My  life  has  its  record  of  good  and  of  ill, 
With  those  to  applaud  and  to  censure  at  will ; 
But  ever  where  thine  was  the  finger  to  trace, 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  how  perfect  the  grace  ! 

The  friendship  that  rides  on  the  wave  of  the  world 
Is  mine  while  the  sails  of  my  bark  are  unfurl'd, 


A    SONG   FOR    THE    UNSUNG. 

And  wafts  me  along  o'er  a  mid-summer  sea 
To  havens  where  Fortune  sits  waiting  for  me ; 
But  Oh,  should  the  tempest  break  over  my  head, 
What  hands  would  be  lifted,  what  pray'r  would  be  said, 
To  save  from  the  last  falling  stroke  of  the  rod  ? . 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  thine  only — to  God. 

Oh,  call  it  not  Love  that  I  give  unto  thee ; 

For  love,  like  a  feverish  sun  on  the  sea, 

Is  only  a  blossom  of  light  from  the  seed 

Of  stars  that  were  sown  when  the  night  was  in  need ;    • 

A  growth  from  the  darkness  to  dwindle  once  more 

And  break  into  atoms,  then  bloom  as  before, 

An  endless  unrest  ever  changing  above, — 

My  Sister,  my  Sister,  it  cannot  be  Love. 

But  call  it  a  name,  that  if  spoken  in  pray'r 
Would  waft  no  alloy  of  the  earth  through  the  air ; 
A  name  by  an  impulse  of  reverence  giv'n 
To  something  all  fair  with  the  beauty  of  Heav'n  ; 
A  name  whose  soft  incense  of  truth  shall  impart 
A  fragrance  refined  in  the  dews  of  the  heart. 
So  pure  is  the  feeling,  though  simple  it  be, 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  I  give  unto  thee. 
4 


74  A   SONG  FOR  THE   UNSUNG. 

'Tis  sweet  to  remember  the  moments  gone  by, 

When  more  was  the  pow'r  in  a  glance  of  thine  eye 

To  hold  me  from  evil  perverting  the  will, 

Than  blows,  that  in  childhood  a  manhood  may  kill. 

And  if  in  the  future  my  destiny  turns 

To  paths  where  the  thorn  is  the  finger  that  spurns, 

Though  others  may  scorn  what  I  seem  unto  them, 

My  Sister,  my  Sister,  thou  wilt  not  condemn. 

For  still,  though  I  leave  thee,  thy  spirit  will  shine 
A  Bethlehem  Star  o'er  the  journey  of  mine, 
And  lead  it  from  perils  where  luxuries  nod 
To  find  in  a  manger  the  glory  of  God. 
While  burneth  a  planet  that  Star  shall  be  there, 
The  rent  in  the  heavens  where  enter'd  a  pray'r, 
When  kneeling  at  even'  thy  form  I  could  see — 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  that  pray'r  was  for  me  ! 

If  aught  to  offend  thee  I  do  while  I  live, 
Forgive  me !  forgive  me  !  and  God  -will  forgive  ; 
Not  His  to  withhold  from  the  suppliant's  cry, 
While  thine  is  the  tenderness  watching  His  eye. 
And  as  I  go  down  in  the  valley  of  death, 
Once  more  but  a  child  at  his  earliest  breath, 
My  soul's  dying  impulse  shall  thrill  through  the  night, 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  to  kiss  thee  Good-Night. 


"  PICCIOLA." 

TT  was  a  Sergeant  old  and  gray, 

Well  singed  and  bronzed  from  siege  and  pillage, 
Went  tramping  in  an  army's  wake, 
Along  the  turnpike  of  the  village. 

For  days  and  nights  the  winding  host 

Had  through  the  little  place  been  marching;, 

And  ever  loud  the  rustics  cheer' d, 

'Till  ev'ry  throat  was  hoarse  and  parching. 

The  Squire  and  Farmer,  maid  and  dame, 

All  took  the  sight's  electric  stirring, 
And  hats  were  waved  and  staves  were  sung, 

And  kerchiefs  white  were  countless  whirring. 


76  "PICCIOLA." 

They  only  saw  a  gallant  show 

Of  heroes  stalwart  under  banners, 

And  in  the  fierce  heroic  glow, 

'Twas  theirs  to  yield  but  wild  hosannas. 

The  Sergeant  heard  the  shrill  hurrahs, 
Where  he  behind  in  step  was  keeping  ; 

But  glancing  down  beside  the  road 
He  saw  a  little  maid  sit  weeping. 

"  And  how  is  this  ?"  he  gruffly  said, 
A  moment  pausing  to  regard  her ; — 

"  Why  weepest  thou,  my  little  chit  ?" — 
And  then  she  only  cried  the  harder. 

"  And  how  is  this,  my  little  chit  ?" 

The  sturdy  trooper  straight  repeated, 

"  When  all  the  village  cheers  us  on, 

That  you,  in  tears,  apart  are  seated  ? 

"  We  march  two  hundred  thousand  strong, 

And  that's  a  sight,  my  baby  beauty, 
To  quicken  silence  into  song 
And  glorify  the  soldier's  duty." 


"  PICCIOLA."  77 

"  It's  very,  very  grand,  I  know," 

The  little  maid  gave  soft  replying ; 
"  And  Father,  Mother,  Brother  too, 

All  say  *  Hurrah '  while  I  am  crying ; 

"  But  think — O  Mr.  Soldier,  think, 

How  many  little  sisters'  brothers 
Are  going  all  away  to  fight 
And  may  be  ~kiWd,  as  well  as  others  !" 

"  Why  bless  thee,  child,"  the  Sergeant  said, 

His  brawny  hand  her  curls  caressing, 
"  'Tis  left  for  little  ones  like  thee 

To  find  that  War's  not  all  a  blessing." 

And  "  Bless  thee !"  once  again  he  cried ; 

Then  clear' d  his  throat  and  look'd  indignant, 
And  march' d  away  with  wrinkled  brow 

To  stop  the  struggling  tear  benignant. 

And  still  the  ringing  shouts  went  up 

From  doorway,  thatch,  and  fields  of  tillage  ; 

The  pall  behind  the  standard,  seen 
By  one  alone,  of  all  the  village. 


78  "  PICCIOLA." 

The  oak  and  cedar  bend  and  writhe 

When  roars  the  wind  through  gap  and  braken ; 
But  'tis  the  tenderest  reed  of  all 

That  trembles  first  when  Earth  is  shaken. 


DOLCE  FAE  NIENTE. 


OTILL  as  a  fly  in  amber,  hangs  the  world 

In  a  transparent  sphere  of  golden  hours, 
With  not  enough  of  life  in  all  the  air 

To  stir  the  shadows  or  to  move  the  flow'rs  ; 
And  in  the  halo  broods  the  angel  Sleep, 
Woo'd  from  the  bosom  of  the  midnight  deep 
By  her  sweet  sister  Silence,  wed  to  Noon. 

ii. 
Held  in  a  soft  suspense  of  summer  light, 

The  gen'rous  fields  with  all  their  bloom  of  wealth 
Bask  in  a  dream  of  Plenty  for  the  years, 

And  breathe  the  languor  of  untroubled  Health. 


80  D  OL  CE  FAR  NIENTE. 

Without  a  ripple  stands  the  yellow  wheat, 
Like  the  Broad  Seal  of  God  upon  the  sheet 
Where  Labor's  signature  appeareth  soon. 


in. 

As  printed  staves  of  thankful  Nature's  hymn, 
The  fence  of  rails  a  soothing  grace  devotes, 
With  clinging  vines  for  bass  and  treble  clefs 

And  wrens  and  robins* here  and  there  for  notes  ; — 
Spread  out  in  bars,  at  equal  distance  met, 
As  though  the  whole  bright  summer  scene  were  set 
To  the  unutter'd  melody  of  Rest ! 


rv. 

Along  the  hill  in  light  voluptuous  wrapt 

The  daisy  droops  amid  the  staring  grass, 
And  on  the  plain  the  rose  and  lily  wait 
For  Flora's  whispers,  that  no  longer  pass  ; 
While  in  the  shade  the  violet  of  blue 
Finds  in  the  stillness  reigning  nature  through, 
That  which  her  gentle  modesty  loves  best. 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE.  81 

v. 

The  mill-wheel  motionless  o'ershades  the  pool, 

In  whose  frail  crystal  cups  its  circle  dips ; 
The  stream,  slow  curling,  wanders  in  the  sun 
And  drains  his  kisses  with  its  silver  lips  ; 
The  birch  canoe  upon  its  shadow  lies, 
The  pike's  last  bubble  on  the  water  dies, 
The  water  lily  sleeps  upon  her  glass. 

VI. 

Here  let  me  linger,  in  that  waking  sleep 

Whose  dreams  are  all  untinged  with  haunting  dread 
Of  Morning's  finger  on  the  eyelids  pressed, 
To  rouse  the  soul  and  leave  the  vision  dead. 

And  while  deep  sunk  in  this  soft  ecstasy 
•   I  count  the  pulse  of  Heaven  dreamily, 
Let  all  life's  bitterness  behind  me  pass  ! 

VII. 

How  still  each  leaf  of  my  oak  canopy, 

That  holds  a  forest  syllable  at  heart, 
Yet  cannot  stir  enough  in  all  its  veins 

To  give  the  munnur'd  woodland  sentence  start ! 
4* 


82  DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE. 

So  still — so  still  all  nature  far  and  near, 
As  though  the  world  had  check' d  its  breath  to  hear 
An  angel's  message  from  the  distant  skies  ! 

VIII. 

This  one  last  glance  at  earth — one,  only  one — 

To  see,  as  through  a  vail,  the  gentle  face 
Bent  o'er  me  softly,  with  a  timid  love 

That  half  distrusts  the  sleep  which  gives  it  grace. 
The  thought  that  bids  mine  eyelids  half  unclose 
Fades  to  a  dream,  and  out  from  Summer  goes, 
In  the  brown  Autumn  of  her  drooping  eyes. 


THE  PERFECT  HUSBAND. 

A  S  Light  unto  the  Morn, 

So  Time  to  him  unfolds  her ; 
As  holds  the  light  the  day, 

So  unto  him  he  holds  her. 
A  fairer  than  himself, 

By  One  still  brighter  given, 
A  something  less  of  earth — 
A  something  more  of  Heaven. 

He  deems  her  not  a  Saint — 

In  loving  she  is  human — 
And  as  he  is  a  Man, 

The  dearer  she  as  Woman. 
Not  down  on  her  he  looks, 

Nor  up  to  an  Ideal, 


84  TEE  PERFECT  HUSBAND. 

But  straight  into  her  eyes, 
And  all  his  love  is  real. 

As  bends  the  sturdy  tree 

To  shade  a  pool  of  water, 
But  standeth  like  a  rock 

When  wind  and  torrent  slaughter ; 
So  bends  he  unto  her 

When  gentlest  her  controlling, 
So  stands  he  as  a  wall 

When  dangers  round  are  rolling. 

'Tis  not  by  given  Bight, 

Or  Privilege,  he  rules  her ; 
For  'tis  his  grace  to  yield, 

That  in  obeying  schools  her ; 
And  if  the  less  himself 

From  troublous  cause,  or  other, 
In  milder  type  he  wears 

The  spirit  of  his  Mother. 

As  she  may  have  a  fault, 
So  he  may  have  a  greater, 


THE  PERFECT  HUSBAND.  85 

And  sorrow  for  his  own 

For  both  is  expiator  ; 
And  if  upon  her  sleeve 

She  snares  a  passing  folly, 
He  frights  it  with  a  smile, 

And  not  with  melancholy. 

He  slaves  her  truth  to  him 

By  no  confining  portal, 
But  in  himself  reflects 

Its  counterpart  immortal. 
The  freedom  that  he  gives, 

Is  taken  from  the  donor  : 
A  Husband's  faith  may  rest 

Upon  a  Husband's  honor. 

And  ever  as  a  child, 

When  childish  she,  he  chides  her, 
And  ever  as  a  man, 

When  she  is  strong,  he  guides  h  T  : 
Through  sunshine  and  through  shade, 

Through  blessing  and  disaster, 
In  more  than  name,  her  Friend, 

In  less  than  law,  her  Master. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

i. 
AN  the  far  borders  of  the  dimming  world 

Gleam  the  last  brands  of  watch-fires,  kindled  when 
The  hosts  of  day,  retreating,  paused  and  furl'd 
Their  shining  Standard  in  the  sea ;  and  then, 
Sullen  and  ready  for  the  strife  again, 
Lit  the  cloud-cities  of  the  yielded  plain 
To  conflagration  vengeful,  mocking  men 
With  the  flame-eaten  palace,  arch  and  fane, 
Of    whose   red   grandeur,   now,   but    smould'ring    clouds 
remain. 

n. 

Already  creep  the  stealthy  scouts  of  Night 
Along  the  shadows  by  the  Ocean  cast, 
With  Midnight  at  its  heart,  against  the  height 
Where  broods  th'  eternal  Mother  of  the  Vast : 


AFTER   THE  BATTLE.  87 

Each  vail'd  in  coming  dreams  of  what  is  past — 
Yet  dropping  from  their  mantles,  as  they  crawl, 
Bright,  Virgin  jewels,  polish' d  by  the  blast, 
And  marking  out  in  kingdoms,  where  they  fall, 
A  sleep-reflected  heritage  for  one — for  all. 

in. 

Alas !  the  drowsy  lids  of  yesterday 
Closed  on  a  scene,  that,  like  a  bosom  fair, 
Was  fit  to  gather  down  such  Peace,  and  pray 
That  it  might  never  garner  less  of  care  ; 
But  now,  the  dead  day's  ashes  in  the  air 
.  Melt  through  a  tainted  twilight  on  the  field, 
Where  Peace  sits  mourning,  with  dishevel'd  hair 
And  blood-shot  eyes,  o'er  Mercy's  broken  shield — 
Peace  made  the   slave   of   War;    Mercy,  of  Death   the 
yield! 

IV. 

Through  the  new  eve  like  a  disordered  pall 
Stretches  the  broken  ground,  with  awful  lines 
Of  human  shape  in  ev'ry  rise  and  fall ; 
Here,  the  bow'd  head  in  dreadful  sleep  reclines ; 


88  AFTER   THE  BATTLE. 

There,  a  stout  arm  with  other  arms  entwines ; 
And,  yonder,  mark  the  semblance  of  a  form 
Twisted  and  wrench'd  in  all  the  mad  designs 
Of  a  young  tree,  made  jester  to  the  storm : 
Ice  to  the  touch,  that  hand — 'twill  ne'er  again  be  warm  ! 


v. 

Thousands  on  thousands,  far  and  near  they  lie, 
Lover  and  foe,  pursuer  and  pursued— 
Some  with  glazed  eyeballs,  glaring  at  the  sky, 
And  some — as  though  with  sudden  grLef  imbued 
By  the  last  scene  their  eyes  in  dying  view'd — 
Prone  with  their  ghastly  faces  to  the  earth  ; 
And  some,  with  life's  hot  rage  in  death  renew'd, 
In  the  death-stare  immortalizing  mirth. 
O  age  without  a  soul,  to  give  such  horrors  birth  ! 


no, 

Yonder  the  battery,  all  shatter' d,  lies  ; 
And  here  the  drum,  by  some  wild  weapon  torn  ; 
And  ev'rywhere  the  charger,  black  with  flies, 
Puts  the  poor  dignity  of  man  to  scorn 


AFTER   THE  BATTLE.  89 

And  blends  his  blood  with  that  of  noblest  born. 
Join'd  in  the  grim  democracy  of  war, 
Rider  and  horse,  soldier,  and  sword  once  worn, 
Find  no  degrees  when  the  fierce  battle  o'er 
Leaves  them  in    equal    graves — slain,   broken,   used    nc 
more. 

VII. 

The  burly  Guardsman,  at  his  captain's  feet, 
Still  the  bent  musket  holds,  with  iron  grip, 
As  though  more  eager  yet  the  foe  to  meet — 
Because  blood  gloves  the  hand  upon  his  hip, 
And,  in  the  rigid  tension  of  his  lip, 
Lurks  the  one  sentence  God  alone  may  speak. 
Soldier,  thy  bravery  hath  made  a  slip, 
And  borne  thee  with  it  where  no  foemen  seek 
To  test  the  strength  once  thine — the  strength  now  less  than 
weak. 

VIII. 

And  thou,  poor  Stripling !  with  the  girlish  hair, 
And  hand  so  white  around  the  pond'rous  hilt, 
It  seems  like  Beauty,  taken  in  a  snare- — 
What  dost  thou  here,  with  death  around  thee  built 


90  AFTER   THE  BATTLE. 

In  such  close  prison,  for  the  Nation's  guilt  ? 
Oh  !  for  a  mother's  hope — a  sister's  dream — 
That  died  in  darkness,  when  the  blood  was  spilt 
In  whose  warm  current  dwelt  the  living  beam 
God  made  to  brighten  Age,  with  its  own  youth's  redeem. 


IX. 

Gone  are  the  conquering  banners  of  the  day — 
Hush'd  the  grand  roar  of  the  artillery — 
And  perish'd  all  the  pomp  and  brave  display 
That  mask'd  the  Battle  in  mad  revelry ! 
Gone  is  the  smoke  that  hid  the  battery  ; 
And  of  th'  immortal  lightning-fire  that  bloom'd 
Upon  a  field  of  bayonets  for  thee, 
And  mark'd  thee,  Soldier,  with  the  ones  it  doomed, 
These  ashes  poor  remain — to  blend,  to  be  entomb'd. 


Draw,  gentle  Night,  thy  curtains  closer  round, 
And  fly,  ye  clouds,  to  hide  the  rising  moon 
From  the  white  faces  staring  from  the  ground. 
The  morning  light  will  come,  alas !  too  soon. 


AFTER   THE  BATTLE.  91 

That  its  fair  beam  must  cancel  all  the  boon 
Of  countless  hearts,  to  whom  the  Night  is  hope 
For  blest  escape  of  loved  ones,  who,  at  noon, 
Reel'd  in  the  charge,  and  fell  upon  the  slope. 
Leave  them  one  feeble  stay,  with  their  despair  to  cope ! 

XI. 

To-morrow  all  the  land,  from  North  to  South, 
May  ring  with  echoes  of  a  Battle  won  ; 
The  rose  may  blossom  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  trumpet  honors  unto  Peace  be  done ; 
But,  from  his  ramparts,  will  the  rising  Sun 
See  where  the  carrion-crows  expectant  flit ; 
And  while  to  crown  her,  worlds  have  just  begun, 
The  Nation,  sick  at  heart  remembering  it, 
Shall,  at  her  bloody  hearth,  in  dust  and  ashes  sit. 


MIDSUMMER. 

1TOODILY  a  drowsy  glory, 

Shed  from  pinions  plumed  in  liglit, 
Held  in  quiet  spell  around  me, 
Vails  my  sight. 

Sleepily  the  rose  and  lily 
Nod  along  the  garden  wall ; 

Little  care  they  for  the  future, 
If  at  all. 

Listlessly  the  dainty  zephyr 
Ripples  down  the  yellow  field, 

Saucily  exposing  daisies 
Half  conceal' d. 


MIDSUMMER.  93 


Heavily  the  wood  keeps  swaying, 
Giving  many  a  sleepy  start, 

While  a  little  bird  talks  music 
To  its  heart. 

Languidly  the  weary  river 
Curls  its  silver  in  the  sun, 

While  its  thousand  water-dimples 
Blend  in  one. 

Wearily  the  ox  is  dozing, 

Right  amid  the  bearded  wheat, 

Winking  at  the  blue-bird  tripping 
Round  his  feet. 

Cozily  old  Dobbin  feedeth 
In  the  shadow  of  the  oak, 

With  the  easy  halter  lying 
Where  it  broke. 

Drowsily  above  the  meadow 
Hums  the  vagrant,  careless  fly ; 

Can  it  be  he  is  as  lazy 
Half  as  I  ? 


04  MIDSUMMER. 

Dreamily  I  watch  the  Summer 
Planting  sunlight  where  she  will ; 

May  her  beaming  presence  leave  me 
Dreaming  still ! 


THE  VILLAGE  PASTOR. 

A  S  burns  a  torch  in  some  ancestral  hall, 

Where  statues  ghostly  cluster  by  the  wall ; 
Each  taking  trembling  motion  in  the  light 
And  wearing  shape  familiar  to  the  sight, 
While  over  all  contending  shadows  draw 
A  breathing  twilight  and  a  brooding  awe  ; 
So  burneth  memory's  censer  in  the  mind, 
Guide  of  the  living  to  the  dead  design'd ; 
So  casts  its  tender,  tributary  beams 
O'er  the  kind  faces  dear  to  childhood's  dreams ; 
So  draws  them  tremulously  from  the  gloom 
Enthroned  impenetrable  round  the  tomb, 
And  to  each  form  such  moving  semblance  gives, 
That,  in  the  shadows,  once  again  it  lives. 


96  THE    VILLAGE  PASTOR. 

Touch' d  by  the  gentle,  melancholy  ray, 
Years,  like  a  mist  at  morning,  roll  away, 
And,  in  the  rising  picture  of  the  past, 
Self  unto  self  is  face  to  face  at  last. 

Once  more,  a  child,  I  tread  the  village  rounds 
And  listen  fondly  to  remember'd  sounds  ; 
Once  more  is  echo'd  from  the  fragrant  dell 
The  measured  ringing  of  the  Sabbath  bell ; 
Once  more  I  totter  at  my  mother's  side 
And  view  my  Sunday  suit  with  guileless  pride, 
While  she  in  accents  of  instructive  love, 
Leads  my  young  fancy  to  the  God  above  ; 
From  the  new  flow'r  a  wholesome  moral  draws, 
Pointing  the  mind  to  nature's  perfect  laws ; 
From  the  new-gilded,  swinging  tavern  sign 
Reads  me  the  storied  wickedness  of  wine  ; 
Tells  me — alas  !  that  it  should  make  me  start — 
My  broken  Sabbath  is  her  broken  heart. 

And  now  our  humble  country  church  is  seen, 
The  pride  and  landmark  of  the  village  green, 
Oft  on  the  distant  trav'ler's  sight  it  broke, 
Girt  with  a  stately  ancestry  of  oak  ; 
Still  to  my  view  its  whiten' d  gables  rise, 
Like  an  uplifted  ark  against  the  skies. 


THE   VILLAGE  PASTOR.  97 

High  on  a  hill  in  lofty  peace  it  stands, 
And  all  the  vale  for  miles  around  commands, 
Where  morn's  first  sparkle  quivers  on  its  spire 
And  the  old  dial  marks  an  hour  of  fire. 
Beneath  its  eaves  the  swallow  builds  her  nest, 
And,  with  her  brood,  unhunted,  finds  a  rest, 
By  instinct  taught  to  freely  harbor  there, 
Nor  fear  the  men  who  come  to  kneel  in  pray'r. 

We  enter  silently  the  holy  place, 
And  softly  tread  the  aisle  with  rev'rent  pace  ; 
No  velvet  cushions  yawn  for  pamper' d  ease, 
No  pictured  windows  glow,  the  rich  to  please ; 
Smooth  seats  of  pine  receive  the  honest  swains, 
And  God's  own  sunshine  tints  the  crystal  panes. 
The  swarthy  artisan,  the  son  of  toil, 
Who  works  in  metals,  and  who  tills  the  soil, 
As  brothers  meet  within  the  sacred  hall, 
The  God  they  worship  is  the  Lord  of  all, 
And  He,  petitioned  oft,  will  understand, 
As  well  the  darker  as  the  whiter  hand. 
Nor  all  alone  these  men  devout  appear, 
The  village  Squire  and  Doctor  both  are  here  ; 
WThile  mothers,  wives,  and  daughters  sit  between 
And  lend  refinement  to  the  solemn  scene. 


98  THE    VILLAGE  PASTOR. 

Now  hush'd  is  ev'ry  sound  above  a  breath, 
And  e'en  the  children  are  as  still  as  death  ; 
The  Village  Pastor  at  his  desk  appears, 
The  faithful  minister  of  three-score  years  ; 
His  hoary  locks  in  snowy  waves  descend, 
And  to  his  features  grace  majestic  lend, 
While  from  his  eyes  unnumber'd  virtues  shine, 
With  love  for  man,  half  human,  half  divine. 
And  when  to  Heav'n  he  sends  the  earnest  pray'r, 
An  hundred  echoes  meet  it  in  the  air — 
Soul  answers  soul  beneath  the  Sabbath  sun, 
But  his  the  strain  that  blends  them  into  one. 
Each  word  is  plain,  the  simplest  of  its  kind, — 
And  well  adapted  to  the  weakest  mind  ; 
No  sounding  phrases  mystify  the  truth, 
Age  tastes  the  fountain  purifying  youth. 
God  hears  His  servant  from  the  throne  on  high, 
And  writes  an  answer  in  his  tearful  eye. 
Mark,  how  he  lingers  o'er  the  sacred  page, 
And  tempers  Scripture  with  the  thoughts  of  age  ; 
With  quivering  lips  the  hope  of  man  is  given — 
Good  will  on  earth — eternal  joy  in  heaven  ; 
While,  sadly  solemn  as  a  funeral  knell, 
His  words  portray  the  endless  woes  of  hell. 


THE    VILLAGE   PASTOR. 

Not  with  political  device  and  tone, 

Not  with  a  studied  sanctimonious  drone, 

The  fame  of  eccentricity  he  seeks, 

But  speaks  the  truth,  as  truthful  nature  speaks ; 

Leaves  state  affairs  to  those  who  make  the  laws, 

And  values  honesty  beyond  applause. 

As,  from  his  desk,  the  holy  man  descends, 
Each  fond  parishioner  his  hand  extends  ; 
Each  little  child  is,  by  its  mother,  led 
To  gain  the  friendly  pat  upon  the  head  ; 
Each  maiden  bows,  his  blessing  to  implore  ; 
Youth  lines  his  homeward  passage  to  the  door ; 
Old  dames,  with  grave  garrulity,  impart 
That  they  have  got  his  sermon  all  by  heart ; 
On  ev'ry  face  there  shines  a  joy  subdued, 
Nor  cares,  nor  sorrows,  on  the  scene  intrude  ; 
Peace  floats  on  sunny  pinions  o'er  the  place, 
And  man  exhibits  his  sublimest  grace. 

Alas  !  that  so  much  innocence  should  fade  ; 
But  Life's  a  taper,  wasting  into  shade. 
Those  dear,  familiar  faces,  one  and  all, 
Now  sleep  in  death,  beneath  a  flow'ry  pall : 


100  THE    VILLAGE  PASTOR. 

Heav'n  gather' d  in  the  mortal  loans  it  made, 

And  simple  goodness  was  the  interest  paid. 

The  single-hearted  Soldier  of  the  Cross 

Fought  not  for  earthly  honors,  praise,  or  dross  ; 

His  badge  of  honor  was  his  hoary  hair, 

His  armories,  the  ocean,  earth  and  air ; 

His  sword  the  Scripture,  honesty  his  strength, 

The  world  his  field,  throughout  its  width  and  length ; 

Truth  was  his  password,  Reason  his  defence, 

And  all  his  foes,  the  foes  of  common  sense. 

His  were  the  tactics  ever  sure  to  win — 

For  Virtue  smiles,  and  tears  alone  for  sin  ; 

These  he  dispensed  wherever  doom'd  to  roam, 

Until  his  Great  Commander  call'd  him  home. 

And  now  strange  forms  are  crowding  on  the  stage, 
I  hear  the  murmurs  of  another  age  ; 
Through  vaulted  arches  studied  tones  arise 
And  dainty  fingers  dally  with  the  skies ; 
Dark,  and  more  dark,  the  gentle  visions  grow — 
Clouds,  black  as  night,  their  deepening  shadows  throw ; 
Fainter  and  fainter,  comes  the  distant  sound — 
Dim  forms  are  sinking  in  the  gaping  ground  ; 
There  dawns  a  consciousness  of  mortal  pain — 
The  light  goes  out — and  I  am  old  again  ! 


LEONORE. 

T  SAW  her  in  the  bright  saloon, 

As  I  had  seen  before 
The  haughtiest  women  of  the  land, 
•  But  none  like  Leonore ; 
So  wrapt  in  living  poetry 
Was  ev'ry  grace  she  wore. 

The  pure  camellias  in  her  hair 
Were  not  so  fair  as  she  ; 

And  in  the  roses  of  her  cheeks 
My  eager  eyes  could  see 

The  banners  of  a  regal  pride, 
That  said :  Come  worship  nie  I 


102  LEONORE. 

The  jewels  on  her  brow  of  snow, 

Beneath  the  chandeliers, 
Seem'd  like  the  record  of  a  life 

Inscribed  in  frozen  tears 
Upon  a  marble  temple's  front, 

With  gold  to  link  the  years. 

I  heard  the  rustling  of  a  robe, 
Like  leaves  before  the  rain, 

And  throngs  roll'd  back  on  either  side, 
Like  waves  upon  the  main 

When  some  mermaiden  walks  at  night, 
With  Tritons  in  her  train. 

And  then,  a  light,  familiar  step, 

Prophetic  fancy  heard, 
As  gentle  in  its  airy  fall 

As  that  of  woodland  bird ; 
Yet  ev'ry  tap  upon  the  floor 

Was  an  unspoken  word ! 

I  saw  a  smile  divide  the  lips 
That  oft  had  honor'd  mine ; 

But  there  was  something  in  the  smile 
My  heart  could  not  define  ; 


LEON  ORE.  103 


So  superficial  was  its  beam, 
And  yet  so  near  divine. 

She  spoke,  but  in  an  alter'd  tone 
From  that  I  once  had  known 

When  she,  in  other  robes  than  these, 
Had  smiled  on  me  alone, 

And  whisper' d,  oh !  so  tenderly, 
That  she  was  all  my  own. 

We  parted,  e'en  as  strangers  part 

Upon  a  foreign  shore ; 
When  each  is  to  the  other  dead, 

As  they  had  been  before 
The  paths  of  their  existence  met, 

To  meet  again  no  more. 

I  saw  her  once  again  that  night, 
When  one  was  called  to  sing 

A  ballad  of  the  olden  time, 
Of  wooing  and  a  ring, 

And  of  a  bride  unsullied  turn'd 
Into  a  guilty  thing. 


104  LEON  ORE. 

0  Leonore !  my  lingering  hope 
Was  blighted  with  the  tear 

That  wash'd  thy  fatal  pride  away, 
And  roll'd,  as  thou  didst  hear 

A  father's  hopeless  sorrows,  borne 
In  music  to  thine  ear. 

And  all  my  love  was  banish'd  then, 
But  pity  took  its  place  ; 

For  in  the  silent  agony 
Reflected  in  thy  face, 

1  saw,  beneath  the  badge  of  shame, 
An  old,  familiar  grace. 


THE  MIRROR. 

"  Inspicere  tanquam  in  speculum.  In  vitas  omnium  jubeo." 

O  PEAK !  thou  pale  and  staring  Phantom, 

From  the  picture  in  the  glass  ; 
Now  is  the  prophetic  moment, 
Tell  me  what  shall  come  to  pass  ! 

Thou  art  looting  to  the  future 
With  those  sunken  eyes  of  thine, 

And  the  fire  reflected  in  them 
Kindles  on  a  distant  shrine. 

From  the  valley  of  the  Present, 

Rank  with  unavailing  tears, 
Is  there  not  an  upward  passage, 

Paved  with  future  years  on  years  ? 
6* 


106  THE  MIRROR. 

Leading  upward  o'er  the  mountain 
In  whose  shade  I  wander  now  ? 

Leading  upward,  leading  onward 
To  the  Temple  on  its  brow  ? 

Tell  me,  silent  seer,  I  pray  thee, 
Is  there  not  a  pow'r  sublime, 

That  can  make  a  yearning  mortal 
Rise  superior  to  his  time  ? 

Must  the  spectres  of  our  sorrows, 

Real  in  the  erring  Past, 
Keep  so  near  us  in  the  present 

That  their  chill  is  forward  cast  ? 

Can  the  memory  of  a  harsher 
Note  upon  the  spirit's  strings, 

Drown  the  music  of  the  Heaven 
Deathless  aspiration  brings  ? 

Can  a  chain  of  cold  denials, 
Growing  greater  as  they  pass, 

Fetter  down  a  soul  for  ever  ? 

Speak !  thou  Phantom  of  the  glass. 


THE  MIRROR.  107 

Must  the  naked  soul  be  measured 

By  a  standard  rear'd  of  pelf? 
Ope  those  mocking  lips  and  tell  me, 

Oh,  my  torturing  Second  Self! 

Thou  art  silent  as  the  marble 

Bearing  many  a  sculptured  name, 
Once  of  those  who  ask'd  such  questions, 

Dying  ere  their  answers  came  ; 

But  a  shadow  thin,  uncertain, 

All  thy  features  plays  about, 
And  within  thine  eyes  reflected 

Is  the  torture  of  a  Doubt ! 

Get  thee  gone,  thou  evil  prophet ! 

Mine  shall  be  a  nobler  lot 
Than  thy  coward  look  would  make  it ; 

Get  thee  gone,  and  mock  me  not ! 

Vain  the  words.     That  mocking  Phantom 

Evermore  will  linger  there, 
Chilling  all  my  mortal  being 

With  its  cold  and  Doubting  stare  ; 


108  TEE  MIRROR. 

Ever  near  me,  right  before  me 
While  I  pause  and  when  I  pass ; 

And,  howe'er  I  strive  to  shun  it, 
All  the  world  is  still  its  glass. 


OTJK  GUIDING  STARS. 

fPHE  planets  of  our  Flag  are  set 

In  God's  eternal  blue  sublime, 
Creation's  world-wide  starry  stripe 
Between  the  banner'd  days  of  time. 

Upon  the  sky's  divining  scroll, 
In  burning  punctuation  borne. 

They  shape  the  sentence  of  the  night 
That  prophesies  a  cloudless  morn. 

The  waters  free  their  mirrors  are ; 

And  fair  with  equal  light  they  look 
Upon  the  royal  ocean's  breast, 

And  on  the  humble  mountain  brook. 


110  OUR    GUIDING    STARS. 

Though  each  distinctive  as  the  soul 
Of  some  new  world  not  yet  begun, 

In  bright  career  their  courses  blend 
Hound  Liberty's  unchanging  Sun. 

Thus  ever  shine,  ye  Stars,  for  all ! 

And  palsied  be  the  hand  that  harms 
Earth's  pleading  signal  to  the  skies, 

And  HeavVs  immortal  Coat  of  Arms. 


THE  MADMAN. 

f]  0  count  the  glimm'ring  lanterns  of  the  sky, 

And  be  thou  priest  of  all  their  mystic  rites  ; 
That  when  the  world  shall  ask — What  makes  them  fly 
Through  boundless  space,  nor  blend  with  other  lights  ? 
Thy  tongue,  with  subtlety,  may  show  their  flights 
To  be  obedient  to  a  set  of  rales 
Laid  down  by  learned  men,  who  make  the  nights 
Their  hours  of  study,  and  do  teach  in  schools 
That  ancient  scholars  were  less  wise  than  modern  fools. 

Mark  well  the  current  of  a  woman's  thought, 
When,  on  his  knees,  the  master  of  her  heart 
Pleads,  with  the  eloquence  his  love  hath  taught, 
For  one  short  word ;  and  see  her  quickly  start, 


112  THE  MADMAN. 

As  though  'twere  unexpected  on  her  part ; 

And  see  her  shun  the  form  she  longs  to  press, 

And  see  her  practice  a  defiant  art — 

Then  tell  me,  if  the  riddle  thou  canst  guess, 

Why  says  she  falsely  "  No,"  while  her  fond  heart  says  "Yes  ?" 

But  who  can  read  the  human  mind,  and  tell 

How  all  its  qualities  should  order' d  be  ? 

And  how  arranged,  its  secret  springs  work  well, 

And  how  disorder'd  by  insanity  ? 

Oh  !  who  shall  justify  the  vanity 

Of  those  who  boast  of  reason,  and  will  show 

That,  in  the  system  of  humanity, 

The  mind  is  darken' d,  when  it  does  not  glow 

With  the  reflected  light  of  other  minds  below  ? 

I've  seen  a  madman  ;  and  they  call'd  him  so 

Because  he  scorn'd  the  ways  of  other  men  ; 

Yet,  as  he  walks  his  dungeon  to  and  fro, 

His  pride  is  like  the  lion's  in  his  den ; 

And  you  would  style  them  prince  and  subject  when 

His  jailor  enters,  to  inquire  of  him 

If  he  has  any  orders  there  and  then, 

Which,  being  answer'd,  may  assuage  his  whim  ? 

But  you  shall  hear  how  I  did  chance  to  meet  with  him. 


THE  MADMAN. 

'Twas  in  a  madhouse  !     Do  not  start,  good  friend, — 

I  am  not  mad,  nor  even  like  to  be 

(Though  there  are  many  people  who  pretend 

That  I  am  crazed,  because  my  words  are  free). 

I  only  went  to  visit ;  just  to  see 

How  the  poor  maniac  differ' d  from  the  man 

Of  Reason  ;  and  how  his  philosophy 

Went  roving  from  the  nicely  order' d  plan 

That  Fashion  dictates,  since  its  potent  reign  began. 

The  keeper  was  a  jolly  fellow,  born 

With  a  broad  stationary  laugh  upon  his  face, 

That  age  to  countless  wrinkles  deep  had  worn  ; 

And,  as  he  guided  me  about  the  place, 

He  jested  oft,  and  with  a  homely  grace, 

Upon  the  creatures  held  in  bondage  there  ; 

And  dwelt  upon  the  evils  of  his  race, 

With  such  a  laughing  and  triumphant  air, 

That  one  might  almost  think  he  gloried  in  despair. 

"  Yonder,"  said  he,  "  you  see  that  female  dress'd 
In  bits  of  carpet,  and  a  crimson  skirt  ? 
Well,  she  was  once  with  twenty  lovers  blest, 
But — would  you  b'lieve  me  ? — the  confounded  flirt 


114  THE  MADMAN. 

Just  play'd  with,  all,  until  their  hearts  were  hurt, 
And  then  she  sent  them  sighing  from  her  side, 
And  told  the  story  in  a  manner  pert ; 
But,  sir,  she  spoil' d  her  chance  to  be  a  bride — 
And  here  she  is  at  last,  and  here  will  she  abide. 

"  That  fellow  was  a  poet,  and  I  hear 

He  wrote  good  verses — or,  at  least  'tis  clear 

He  thought  so — but  some  surly  critic's  sneer, 

Sent  him  to  Boston  first ;  then  he  came  here. 

Oh !  you  should  hear  him  talk  of  '  Jenny,  dear,' 

And  all  the  orange  blossoms  in  her  hair, 

And  how  he  honestly  believes  her  tear 

To  be  a  dew-drop,  fragrant,  and  as  fair 

As  ever '  took  its  flight '  through '  Eden's ' — something — '  air.' 

"  Here's  an  old  maid. — Law,  Betty,  don't  be  mad 

(But  she  is  mad,  sir,  as  a  hare  in  March), 

I'm  sure  this  single  gentleman  is  glad 

To  meet  a  lady  graceful  as  a  larch. 

Ah,  sir !  (aside)  for  all  she  looks  so  arch, 

She  is  as  crazy  as  a  bug  in  bed  ; 

And  daily  covers  all  her  head  with  starch, 

Because  she  fancies  that  her  hair  is  red. 

Poor  thing  !  she's  only  mad  because  she  cannot  wed. 


THE  MADMAN.  115 

"  And  there's  a  lawyer — such  a  lively  chap  ! — 

Who's  always  arguing  some  mighty  *  cause ;' 

And  sometimes  takes  that  dog  upon  his  lap, 

And  talks  to  it  about  the  '  Statute  Laws,' 

As  though  the  animal,  instead  of  paws, 

Had  hands  to  furnish  an  enormous  fee  ; 

Or,  as  a  pris'ner,  long'd  to  find  some  clause 

That  might  entitle  him  to  liberty. 

Oh !  he's  the  strangest  man — and  mad  as  mad  can  be. 

"  But  here's  the  wildest  madman  of  them  all — 

You  see  we  have  to  bind  him  with  a  chain. 

He  has  a  notion  that  the  sky  would  fall 

If  he,  as  emperor,  should  cease  to  reign ; 

In  fact,  sir,  he  is  hopelessly  insane, 

And  raves  so  strangely  in  his  frantic  way, 

That  all  attempts  to  quiet  him  are  vain 

Until  the  fit  has  left  him  for  the  day. 

Just  speak  to  him,  good  sir,  and  see  what  he  will  say." 

A  wreck  of  manhood  stood  within  a  cell, 
Where  endless  night  with  the  inconstant  morn 
For  mast'ry  strove ;  and  from  his  waist  there  fell 
An  iron  chain,  that  in  its  writhes  had  torn 


116  THE  MADMAN. 

Great,  gaping  wounds,  and  on  his  limbs  had  worn 

The  brand  of  infamy — a  felon's  brand. 

His  robe  was  rags,  his  beard  was  all  unshorn, 

And  like  a  vulture's  talon  was  his  hand — 

Yet  proud  as  king  of  countless  kingdoms  did  he  stand  ! 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?"  respectfully  I  said ; 
For  there  was  something  in  his  aspect  then — 
A  crown  of  nature  on  his  fallen  head — 
That  gave  the  fetter' d  madman  in  his  den, 
An  air  superior  to  common  men. 
I  felt  as  they  who  ruin'd  temples  see, 
And  own  the  influence  of  past  ages,  when 
Each  pillar  tower'd  in  matchless  symmetry, 
And  ev'ry  hall  echo'd  the  tread  of  royalty  ! 

The  madman  heard  me  with  a  nervous  start, 

And  glared  upon  me  with  his  blazing  eyes, 

Then  placed  a  wither'd  hand  upon  his  heart 

(Or  where  the  heart  of  reasoning  people  lies), 

As  one  tormented  with  strange  terror,  tries 

To  close  his  bosom  'gainst  a  full  belief 

Of  some  dread  woe  that  on  a  rumor  flies — 

And,  in  his  fear,  scarce  comprehends  his  grief. 

Thus  stood  that  human  wreck  upon  misfortune's  reef. 


1HE  MADMAN.  117 

'•  Why  came  I  here  !"  he  said  ;  while  from  his  lips 

The  froth  went  streaming  o'er  his  matted  beard, 

And  thence  upon  his  breast :  "  Why  come  the  ships 

Unto  their  ports  ?     Because  by  MAN  they're  §teer'd. 

I  am  a  ship  ;  and  when  I  boldly  veer'd 

From  Custom's  pathway  and  his  common  home, 

Men  seized  my  vital  tiller,  loudly  jeer'd, 

And  to  the  port  of  madness  made  me  come  ! 

But  I  defy  them  all — Prince,  King,  and  Pope  of  Rome ! " 

"  He  raves !"  the  keeper  whisper' d.     "  Let  us  go  1" 

"  Not  yet,"  I  answer'd ;  for  a  mystic  spell 

Was  stealing  o'er  my  senses  ;  and  the  woe 

Of  him  before  me  in  that  dreary  cell, 

Was  like  the  shadowy  waters  of  a  well 

Wherein  I  saw  familiar  features,  fraught 

With  the  strange  meaning  of  an  hour  when  fell 

A  midnight  blackness  on  my  world  of  thought, 

And  all  my  inmost  soul  its  dark  contagion  caught: 

"  Tell  me  the  tale,"  I  mutter'd,  in  a  tone 

So  deep  in  its  intensity,  and  wild, 

That  I  did  scarcely  know  it  for  my  own. 

And  then  the  madman  shook  his  head  and  smiled — 


118  THE  MADMAN. 

But  such  a  smile !     It  was  of  mirth  defiled 

With  the  new  traces  of  a  thousand  tears — 

Each  tear  of  some  dread  agony  the  child — 

A  smile  that  Death  in  ghastly  triumph  wears ; 

One  gleam  of  wrinkled  light  upon  a  storm  of  years  ! 

"  Hear  me  !"  he  shouted.     "  Hear  the  wondrous  tale 

That  might  confound  a  chicken-hearted  slave. 

And  make  him  shudder,  and  his  cheek  turn  pale  ; 

But  if,  like  me,  thou  dost  not  fear  to  brave 

A  world  of  fools,  nor  findest  in  each  grave 

A  ghost  to  haunt  thee  in  its  winding-sheet, 

Thou  shalt  exult  with  me  when  I  do  rav^ 

And  glory  in  the  wonders  I  repeat ; 

For  we  are  man  and  man — in  sympathy  we  meet ! 

"  I  loved  a  maiden  once — a  gentle  girl, 

Bred  in  a  valley  where  the  sloping  hills 

Reflect  each  other's  beauties.     Like  a  pearl, 

In  a  rude 'shell,  I  found  her;  and  the  rills 

That  mock  the  birds  of  summer  with  their  trills, 

Were  not  more  pure,  more  fresh,  more  bright  than  she. 

Hers  was  a  beauty  that  the  bosom  thrills 

With  the  love-notes  of  its  own  ecstasy ; 

And  her  fond  guileless  heart  knew  me,  and  only  me ! 


THE  MADMAN.  119 

"  We  stood  before  the  altar  at  the  hour 

When  all  the  west  is  planted  thick  with  light, 

And  ev'ry  cloud  is  bursting  into  flow'r, 

And  blooms  amid  the  banners  of  the  night. 

We  wedded,  and  I  left  her ;  for  the  sight 

Of  her  sweet  blushes  so  o'ercharged  my  soul 

With  wondrous  joy,  that  I  was  madden' d  quite, 

And  in  my  madness  could  not  brook  control ; 

Man  knew  not  half  my  bliss — God,  only,  knew  the  whole ! 

"  I  wander'd  in  the  fields,  yet  saw  no  earth, 

Nor  sun,  nor  sky ;  for  I  was  in  a  dream 

That  gave  unto  another  world  a  birth. 

O  God !  had  this  world  been  as  that  did  seem ! 

But  I  awoke,  to  find  the  subtle  beam 

Of  madness  fled.     I  had  been  dreaming  long ; 

But  Reason  seized  again  the  rule  supreme, 

And  as  she  checked  fond  Love's  delusive  song, 

My  guilty  soul  was  conscious  of  a  heavy  wrong ! 

"  I  sought  my  bride  again.     She  smiled  on  me, 
And  placed  her  little  hands  within  my  own, 
And  kiss'd  my  forehead  so  confidingly, 
That  I  could  scarce  repress  the  rising  groan. 
0  God !  Why  had  I  not  a  heart  of  stone, 


120  THE  MADMAN. 

To  save  her  blessed  spirit  from  the  taint 

Of  selfish  love,  that,  in  its  wild  desire, 

Would  see  the  mortal  only  in  the  saint, 

And  make  a  pretext  of  its  holy  fire  ! 

But  I  wash'd  out  my  guilt — the  sacrifice  was  dire  ! 

*'  They  led  her  to  her  couch,  and  when  I  sought 

The  old  oak  chamber,  at  a  later  hour, 

Angels  of  slumber  o'er  her  soul  had  wrought 

The  subtle  influence  of  their  gentle  pow'r 

And  woven  dreams.     The  minutes  that  devour 

The  night,  were  nearing  Twelve ;  above  the  hill  . 

The  moon  swept  slowly,  and  her  silver  show'r 

Stream'd  softly,  coldly,  o'er  the  window-sill ; 

Tired  Nature  slept  in  peace,  and  all  was  hush'd  and  still. 

"  With  noiseless  step,  I  cross'd  the  chamber  floor, 

Drew  the  pale  curtains  of  the  couch  aside, 

And,  like  a  troubled  spirit  on  the  shore 

Of  a  lost  Heav'n,  I  look'd  upon  my  bride. 

Oh  !  she  was  beautiful !  and,  in  the  pride 

Of  fearless  innocence,  she  calmly  slept, 

Like  rosebud  on  a  lily  open'd  wide ; 

And,  as  a  dream-laugh  o'er  her  features  crept, 

The  fountain  of  my  tears  flow'd  over,  and  I  wept ! 


THE   MADMAN.  121 

"  But  as  I  wept,  I  saw  a  bitter  sneer 

Drawn  with  a  moonbeam  on  a  spectral  face 

Press'd  close  against  the  glass.     *  Fool !  dost  thou  fear 

To  rise  superior  to  thy  coward  race  ? ' 

A  taunting  echo  rang  about  the  place, 

And  my  great  purpose  was  revived  again  ! 

*  I  do  not  fear !'  I  cried.     '  God  grant  me  grace 

To  yield  to  thee  a  soul  without  a  stain ; 

She  came  unstain'd  to  me,  and  spotless  shall  remain  P 

"  I  bent  above  her,  and  she  gave  a  start — 

Like  one  affrighted — softly  breathed  my  name, 

Then  slumber' d  on.     Then  I  did  act  a  part 

That  might  eclipse  a  Christian  martyr's  fame, 

And  make  the  laurell'd  hero  blush  for  shame  ; 

Down  through  the  snowy  temple  of  the  soul 

I  struck  the  glitt'ring  blade,  and  quench'd  the  flame 

Of  a  young  life,  that  all  the  brightness  stole 

From  my  own  martyr'd  heart,  as  the  red  drops  did  roll  1 

"  They  call'd  me  MADMAN  for  it,  fetter'd  me, 
And  shut  me  in  a  prison — where  I  stand 
To  bear  the  bitter  mockings  of  the  free, 
And  live  a  by-word  for  a  darken'd  land  ! 


122  THE   MADMAN.  . 

Yirginius  slew  his  child  with  his  own  hand, 
To  save  her  from  a  tyrant ;  I  did  slay 
My  bride  to  save  her  from  myself!     How  grand 
The  deed !     Yet  worlds  their  lasting  homage  pay 
Unto  the  Roman  HERO — but  I'm  MAD,  they  say  !" 

The  madman  paused,  and  turn'd  away  his  face — 

As  though  he  would  not  have  a  stranger  know 

That  he  could  weep.     Then,  with  the  haughty  grace 

Of  one  to  empire  born,  he  bade  me  go 

Forth  from  his  royal  presence !     Bowing  low, 

I  left  him  in  his  solitary  den 

To  weep,  and  rave,  and  live,  and  die,  as  though 

He  to  the  world  unknown  had  ever  been, 

And,  being  curs'd  by  God,  was  doubly  curs'd  by  men 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  ROSES. 

TI7HO  shall  tell  the  roses  now 

Where  their  missing  loves  are  lying, 
Buried  under  softest  snows, 

By  the  sweetest  torture  dying, — 
Dying,  like  the  morning's  ray 
Lapt  and  lost  in  perfect  day  ? 

Dainty  Zephyr,  cherish' d  oft 
By  the  flow'rs  to  their  undoing, 

Have  you  found  the  Roses'  grave 

Here,  or  there,  in  all  your  wooing, — 

Wooing  wide  and  wooing  free 

Constant  to  Inconstancy  ? 

Brief  the  tale  the  Zephyr  tells, 
How  the  pair  he  half-discover' d 


124  THE  DEATH    OF   THE  ROSES. 

Lurking  'neath  a  virgin's  veil, 

As  about 'the  place  he  hover' cl, — 
Hover' d,  till  in  orange  sprays 
Quick  he  lost  them  from  his  gaze. 

Orange  Blossoms,  frail  as  fair, 
Loved  of  all  who  wear  the  kirtle, 

Know  ye  if  the  Roses  lost 

Kissed  the  Cypress,  or  the  Myrtle  ? 

Myrtle,  ask  the  Cypress,  thou, 

Where  the  Roses  died,  and  how  2 

This  the  tale  the  blossoms  tell, 
Whisp'ring  one  unto  the  other, 

Softly,  softly  breathing  low 

As  they  would  the  secret  smother, — 

Smother  from  the  blue-bell's  ear, 

Bent  in  expectation  near. 

On  the  cheeks  the  lover  wed 

Grew  the  Roses  ;  there  they  perish'd 

When,  before  the  altar,  Love 
Rivals  to  the  Roses  cherish' d, — 

Cherish'd  Lilies  for  the  Bride, — 

Then  and  there  the  Roses  died ! 


THE  GENERAL'S  WIFE. 

OHE  hears  the  thunder  of  his  guns. 

Deep-crashing  o'er  the  lowland  farms, 
And  all  the  ardor  of  her  soul 

Goes  forth  to  greet  her  lord  in  arms ; 

And  where  in  peril's  thickest  round 
He  stems  the  surging  hostile  hordes, 

Her  spirit  walks  the  flashing  deep 

To  guard  him  through  a  wind  of  swords. 

Though  sways  the  balance  of  the  strife, 
From  losses  near,  to  gains  afar, 

Her  Faith  shines  steadfast  on  his  head, 
As  on  the  ship  the  Polar  Star. 


126  THE    GENERAL'S  WIFE. 

Let  brother  question  brother's  might, 
And  man's  distrust  of  man  be  rife, 

"Tis  not  in  "Woman's  heart  to  doubt 
The  pow'r  that  won  and  rules  the  wife. 

Through  all  the  battle's  storm  of  sounds, 
The  crash  of  death,  the  host's  rejoice, 

In  that,  she  hears  his  sabre-stroke, 
In  this,  his  own  triumphant  voice. 

And  if  for  grace  the  foeman  bend, 
Though  ev'ry  lip  with  fury  foam, 

His  hand  falls  softly  through  her  pray'r, 
As  on  his  Darling's  head  at  home. 

So,  should  the  land  refuse  to  praise, 
An  ocean  shall  his  glory  be, — 

A  Hope  as  tireless  as  the  wave, 
A  love  as  boundless  as  the  sea. 


THE  ANCIENT  CAPTAIN. 

npHE  smiles  of  an  evening  were  shed  on  the  sea, 

And  its  wave-lips  laugh'd  through  their  beardings  of 

foam ; 

And  the  eyes  of  an  evening  were  mirror'd  beneath 
The  shroud  of  the  ship  and  her  home. 

And  as  Time  knows  an  end,  so  that  sea  knew  a  shore, 

Afar  in  a  beautiful,  tropical  clime, 
Where  Love  with  the  Life  of  each  being  is  blent, 

In  a  soft,  psychological  Rhyme. 

Oh,  grand  was  the  shore,  when  deserted  and  still 
It  breasted  the  silver-mail' d  hosts  of  the  Deep, 

And  like  the  last  bulwark  of  Nature  it  seem'd, 
'Twixt  Death  and  an  Innocent's  sleep. 


128  THE  ANCIENT    CAPTAIN. 

But  grander  it  was  to  the  eyes  of  a  knight, 

When,  clad  in  his  armor,  he  stood  on  the  sands, 

And  held  to  his  bosom  its  essence  of  Life — 
An  heiress  of  titles  and  lands. 

Ah,  fondly  he  gazed  on  the  -face  of  the  maid ! 

And  blush-spoken  fondness  replied  to  his  look  ; 
While  heart  answer' d  heart  with  a  feverish  beat, 

And  hand  press'd  the  hand  that  it  took. 

"  Fair  lady  of  mine,"  said  the  knight,  stooping  low, 
"  Before  I  depart  for  the  banquet  of  Death, 
I  crave  a  new  draught  from  the  fountain  of  Life, 
Whose  waters  are  all  in  thy  breath. 

"  The  breast  that  is  fill'd  with  thine  image  alone, 
May  safely  defy  the  dread  tempest  of  steel ; 
For  while  all  its  thought,  are  of  love  and  of  thee, 
What  peril  of  Self  can  it  feel  ?" 

He  paused ;  and  the  silence  that  follow'd  his  words, 
Was  spread  like  a  Hope,  'twixt  a  Dream  and  a  trith 

And  in  it,  his  fancy  created  a  world 

Wrought  out  of  the  dreams  of  his  youth. 


THE  ANCIENT    CAPTAIN.  129 

'  -     ff 
Then  shadows  crept  over  the  beautiful  face 

Turn'd  up  to  the  sky  in  the  pale  streaming  light, 
As  shadows  sweep  over  the  orient  pearl, 
Far  down  in  the  river  at  night. 

You're  going,"  she  said,  *'  where  the  fleets  are  in  leash, 
Where  plumed  is  a  knight  for  each  wave  of  the  sea  , 

Yet  all  the  wide  Ocean  shall  have  but  One  wave, 
One  ship  and  One  sailor  for  me  !" 

He  left  her,  as  leaveth  the  god  of  a  dream 
The  portals  that  close  with  a  heavier  sleep ; 

And  then,  as  he  sprang  to  the  shallop  in  wait, 
The  rowers  push'd  off  in  the  Deep. 


6* 


A  FABLE  FOR  STRATEGISTS. 

flpHE  Animals  once,  in  a  classical  age, 

Were  fill'd  with  the  wildest  affright, 
Because  of  a  Serpent  a  hundred  yards  long, 
That  came  on  a  mission  of  spite 

One  night, 
And  stretch' d  himself  out  in  their  sight. 

The  donkey,  the  sloth,  the  hyena,  and  bear, 
The  foxes,  the  monkeys,  and  cows, 

Join'd  in  with  the  rest  of  the  animal  herd 
In  uproar  sufficient  to  rouse 

Bow-wows 
From  dogs — and  from  felines  mee-yows. 


A    FABLE   FOR    STRATEGISTS.  131 

It  chanced  that  old  Jupiter,  passing  that  way, 

Was  call'd  to  the  spot  by  the  sound, 
And,  straightway  establishing  criers  and  court, 

He  summon'd  the  creatures  he  found 
Around, 

Requesting  them  all  to  expound. 

Old  Leo,  the  Lion,  who  couch'd  in  a  bush, 

Too  sick  and  too  feeble  to  roar, 
Made  bold  to  explain,  in  a  dignified  way, 

The  very  lamentable  bore — 
And  more — 

Of  having  a  snake  at  their  door. 

"  And  old  as  I  am,"  mutter'd  Leo  the  lame, 
"  Myself  would  the  reptile  defy  : 
But  snakes,  as  your  Worship  undoubtedly  knows, 
Require  an  opponent  that's  spry  ; 

And  I 
Can  better  devise  than  apply. 

"  Permit  me  to  say,  that  your  Worship  should  name 

A  champion  over  the  rest, 
And  give  unto  him,  by  your  magical  pow'r 
What  weapon  he  claims  is  the  best 


132  A    FABLE  FOR    STRATEGISTS. 

To  wrest 
The  Snake  from  the  family  nest." 

Then  Jupiter  nodded  a  mighty  consent, 

And,  speaking  in  thunder,  said  he : 
"  What  animal  here  feeleth  competent  quite 
To  conquer  the  Serpent — if  he 

From  me 
Can  have  what  he  wishes  for,  free  ?" 

Up  spoke  a  young  Monkey  of  average  size, 

With  manner  peculiarly  bold, 
.  "  Yon  Serpent  I'll  conquer  and  drive  to  the  wall 
Before  he's  another  hour  old, 

All  told— 
Provided  your  promise  you  hold. 

"  You  see  that  the  Serpent's  a  hundred  yards  long, 

With  so  many  yards  to  assail, 
And  what  I  require  to  be  even  with  him, 
That  I  in  the  fight  may  prevail — 

Not  fail, 
Is  fifty  more  yards  to  my  Tail." 


A    FABLE  FOR    STRATEGISTS.  133 

'Twas  plain,  from  the  look  upon  Jupiter's  face, 

He  marvelled  that  creature  so  mean 
Should  push  himself  forward  to  hazard  the  feat, 

Where  so  many  nobler  were  seen  ; 
But  e'en  * 

A  Monkey's  a  Monkey,  I  ween. 

So,  moving  his  court,  with  spectators  and  all, 

Quite  close  to  the  enemy's  land, 
Great  Jupiter  motion'd  the  MONKEY  to  take 

His  place,  where  he'd  chosen  to  stand 
So  grand, 

And  work  out  the  scheme  he  had  plann'd. 

The  MONKEY  obey'd,  with  a  confident  air, 

And  scarce  had  he  faced  at  the  foe, 
When,  giving  a  glance  at  his  flexible  TAIL, 

He  found  it  commencing  to  grow, 
You  know ; 

For  he  had  bespoken  it  so.  - 

'Till  fully  six  coils  had  been  added  thereto, 

He  held  it  in  train  with  a  paw  ; 
But  then  for  his  strength  rather  heavy  it  weigh'd, 

And  he  on  the  ground  let  it  draw — 


134  A    FABLE  FOR    STRATEGISTS. 

0  law ! 
Such  Tail  mortal  man  never  saw. 

y 

To  fifty  full  yards  it  extended  at  last, 

All  curl'd  on  the  earth  in  a  pile : 
And  there  was  the  Serpent,  and  here  was  his  foe, 

Both  staring  in  comical  style 
The  while, 

As  though  'twas  a  joke  to  beguile. 

The  Monkey  he  chatter' d,  the  Monkey  he  fuss'd, 
When  Jupiter  thunder' d — "  Begin  !" 

But  there  was  the  SERPENT,  and  here  was  his  foe, 
With  hiss  making  answer  to  grin — 

As  in 
Such  manner  each  reckon' d  to  win. 

The  Animals  titter' d,  the  Animals  growl'd, 

And  even  the  birds  in  the  tree 
Alternately  croaked  with  impatience  of  note, 

And  chirp' d  in  the  greatest  of  glee 
To  see 

How  comic  'twas  getting  to  be. 


A    FABLE   FOR    STRATEGISTS.  135 

Great  Jupiter  frown'd  at  the  battle's  delay 

And  thunder' d  "  Begin  !"  as  before  ; 
But  there  was  the  SERPENT  and  here  was  his  foe, 

Each  eyeing  the  other  one  o'er, 
And  o'er, 

And — not  doing  anything  more. 

The  Monkey  he  started,  the  Monkey  fell  back, 

His  tail  was  too  heavy  to  drag  ; 
He  lifted  a  number  of  coils  in  his  arms, 

And  struggled  along  with  a  fag 
And  lag, 

As  limp  as  an  overwash'd  rag. 

The  venomous  SERPENT,  still  eyeing  his  foe, 

Commenced  to  curl  up  from  behind, 
And  back  jump'd  the  MONKEY,  entangled  in  tail, 

And  chatter' d,  "  O  Jupiter  kind, 
I  find 

More  TAIL  I  must  have  to  unwind  !" 

Now  Jupiter  saw  and  the  Animals  too, 

He  couldn't  use  all  that  he  had ; 
But,  willing  to  humor  his  champion  still, 

Proceeded,  with  feelings  half  glad, 


136  A    FABLE  FOR    STRATEGISTS. 

Half  mad, 
Ten  yards  to  the  fifty  to  add. 

The  MONKEY  he  loaded  his  shoulders  with  coil, 

0 

And  painfully  started  anew ; 

Yet  such  was  the  weight  of  the  pile  on  the  ground, 
He  stopp'd  ere  he'd  gone  inches  two, 

And  threw 
His  coils,  like  a  Texan  lassoo. 

The  SERPENT,  still  keeping  an  eye  on  his  foe, 

Sway'd  cunningly  backward  a  bit ; 
And  back  hopp'd  the  MONKEY,  entangled  in  tail, 

Scarce  knowing  .if  he'd  made  a  hit 
With  it, 

And  frighten'd  half  into  a  fit. 

The  Animals  titter'd,  the  Animals  growl'd, 

And  Jupiter  thunder' d — "  Explain !" 
«  Indeed,"  sigh'd  the  MONKEY,  "  that  Snake  is  so  long, 
To  equal  his  strength  in  the  main, 

'Tis  plain 
A  little  more  TAIL  I  must  gain  !" 


A    FABLE  FOR    STRATEGISTS.  137 

» 
Though  Jupiter  saw,  and  the  Animals  too, 

Already  it  mock'd  his  control, 
He  added  full  twenty  more  yards  to  the  TAIL, 
That  mounted  immensely  in  scroll 

On  scroll, 
A  hopelessly  complicate  whole. 

The  MONKEY  he  loaded  his  shoulders  with  coils, 

With  others  his  body  he  wound ; 
But  scarce  had  he  lifted  his  foot  for  a  step, 

When  down  they  all  fell  on  the  ground 
Around, 

In  snarls  and  confusion  profound. 

The  SERPENT,  still  keeping  an  eye  on  his  foe, 

Indulged  in  an  ominous  snap  ; 
And  loud  scream'd  the  MONKEY,  entangled  in  TAIL, 
"  I've  met  with  a  grievous  mishap," 

Poor  chap — 
To  fancy  a  serpent  would  nap  ! 

The  animals  titter'd,  the  animals  growPd, 

And  Jupiter  threaten'd  a  breeze. 
'  You  see,"  said  the  MONKEY,  "  so  long  is  the  snake, 
He  reaches  beyond  me  to  seize — 


138  A    FABLE  FOR    STRATEGISTS. 

With  ease — 
A  little  more  TAIL,  if  you  please  !" 

Though  Jupiter's  patience  was  that  of  a  god, 
'Twas  now  very  nearly  worn  out ; 

Yet  waved  he  the  signal,  thrice  given  before, 
And  twenty  more  yards,  with  a  flout 

About, 
Were  join'd  to  the  TAIL,  at  a  sprout. 

The  Monkey  he  gazed  at  the  mountain  of  coils, 
So  wondrously  changing  his  base, 

Then  wildly  and  frantic'ly  twisted  and  tugg'd, 
To  tumble  it  over  the  ^lace, 

Apace, 
Where  hiss'd  the  old  Snake  in  his  face. 

And  vainly  he  strove  ;  for  the  mountain  of  coils 

Not  only  resisted  him  quite, 
But  firmly  it  held  him  enchain'd  to  the  spot, 

And  on  came  the  SERPENT  to  bite 
The  wight 

That  took  so  much  TAIL,  for  a  fight ! 


A    FABLE  FOR    STRATEGISTS.  139 

The  Monkey  he  gibber'  d,  the  Monkey  he  shriek'd, 

In  fear  of  a  horrible  fate  — 
0,  Jupiter,  what's  to  become  of  me  now, 

O  mercy  !  don't  ponder  and  wait 
Too  late, 

Or  I  shall  be  murder'd  and  ate  ! 


A  nod  from  the  god,  and  a  magical  axe 
One  moment  was  seen  in  the  air, 

Then  straight  at  the  root  of  the  wonderful 
It  flew  —  and  the  Monkey  was  bare 

Of  e'er 
The  least  bit  of  tail  he  could  wear  ! 


And  just  at  the  moment  this  thing  was  achieved 

The  serpent,  with  croak  like  a  frog, 
Went  off  through  the  bushes,  but  left  in  his  trail 

Full  half  of  his  length  in  the  bog  — 
A  log, 

With  which  he  pretended  to  jog  ! 

The  animals  titter'd,  the  animals  growl'  d, 
The  Monkey  looked  crush'  d  and  forlorn  ; 

'Twas  plain,  from  his  bitter  expression  of  face, 
He  wish'd  that  he'd  never  been  born  ; 


140  A    FABLE  FOR    STRATEGISTS. 

Nor  shorn, 
Of  what  he  so  proudly  had  worn. 

Then  silence  was  order' d,  and  Jupiter  turn'd, 

And  unto  the  Monkey  said  he  : 
"  I  gave  you  your  way,  and  a  very  nice  way 
That  way  has  been  proved  unto  me 

To  be, 
And  ends — as  we  all  of  us  see  ! 


"  As  you're  but  a  monkey,  my  sentence  is  light 

Go  back  to  your  kindred  and  friends, 
And  possibly  you  for  a  hero  may  pass — 
As  one  who,  to  make  his  amends, 

Pretends 
'Twas  Heaven  that  thwarted  his  ends  ! 

The  Animals,  struck  with  a  sentence  so  just, 

To  Jupiter  raised  an  All  Hail ! 
And  cherish'd  the  lesson  that  ever  it  lies 

In  length  of  the  Head  to  prevail — 
Not  fail, 

And  not  in  the  length  of  the  Tail, 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  OLD. 

fPHOUGH  bends  the  hoary  head  with  years 

In  reverential  grace, 
As  bowing  meekly  unto  God 

When  nearest  to  His  face ; 
Yet  lives  there  something  of  the  child, 

One  spark  amid  the  cold, 
To  hallow  with  the  warmth  of  youth 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 

Not  all  the  throng  of  worldly  cares 

That  sadden  life's  decline, 
Can  leave  the  human  heart  without 

Some  one  Ideal's  shrine  ; 


142  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   OLD. 

•  For  if  Realities  have  proved 

What  childhood  ne'er  foretold, 
Still  clings  the  fiction's  charm  about 
The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


Oh  lover,  in  thy  blushing  pride, 

Oh  sweetheart,  in  thy  walks, 
Turn  not  in  angry  haste  away 

Because  an  old  man  talks  ; 
But  think  the  twinkle  of  his  eye, 

O'er  jokes  so  often  doled, 
Reflects  thine  own  romance  within 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


The  hand  that  hangs  the  Christmas  Tree 

With  quaint,  ingenious  toys, 
May  lack  the  whiteness  of  the  girl's, 

The  quickness  of  the  boy's ; 
Yet  in  the  loving  heart  that  bids 

Such  fruit  the  leaves  enfold, 
Are  children's  dreams,  renew'd,  to  guide 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE    OLD.  143 

I  saw  returning  from  a  church 

A  fond  and  happy  pair ; 
And  He  with  look  and  step  elate, 

And  She  with  modest  air. 
Behind  them  came  two  stooping  forms 

As  happy ; — but,  behold ! 
They  wept ;  for  weeping  marketh  oft 

The  Romance  of  the  Old  ! 


To  manhood  in  its  hardy  prime 

And  womanhood  the  young, 
'Tis  given  perfect  joy  to  show 

By  music  from  the  tongue  ; 
But  tears  refine  the  wither' d  cheek 

Where  many  a  tear  hath  roll'd, 
When  tenderness  through  pleasure  thrills 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


All  blessings  on  the  sacred  head 
That  wears  the  silver  crown, 

And  blessings  on  the  shaking  hand 
That  smoothes  its  brightness  down.; 


144  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE    OLD. 

And  blessings  on  the  shrunken  lips, 

To  kindness,  only,  bold, 
Whose  very  benedictions  breathe 

The  Romance  of  the  Old  ! 

And  whether  at  the  hearth  of  Homo, 

Or  in  the  world  around, 
Let's  thank  the  Father  of  us  all* 

For  wisdom  so  profound  ; 
That,  as  in  Youth  the  blood  is  warm, 

And  as  in  Age  'tis  cold, 
The  two  are  sweetly  blended  in 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


PSYCHE. 

voice  is  in  my  dreams,  0  faithful  love ! 
Its  soothing  accents,  murmuringly  low, 
Bend  to  no  words,  but  musically  flow 

In  a  fond  influence  ;  as  the  stars  above 
Syllable  light,  that  would  in  sentence  prove 
Bright  as  the  Sun ;  yet  is  not  e'en  the  Moon. 

Thine  eyes  are,  like  the  camel's,  soft  and  clear, 
And  deep  with  patience  tenderly  subdued, 

As  though  an  angel  gazing  through  them  view'd 
Vistas  of  Heaven  mirror'd  in  the  blear, 

Glimmering  waves,  that  from  afar  appear 
O'er  the  grey  desert's  solitary  noon. 
7 


146  PSYCHE. 

Thy  touch  is  on  my  life  ;  thy  hands  unseen, 
Blent  with  the  glory  shaded  from  thine  eye 

When  thy  soft  glance  steals  upward  to  the  sky 
Pleadingly,  meekly — keep  my  spirit  clean, 

Banishing  stains,  or  making  them  to  mean 
Ashes  from  fire,  or  dust  from  purest  air. 

Thy  form  is  ever  with  me,  day  and  night ; 

The  city's  crowds  of  evil  and  of  good, 
The  cool,  green  chambers  of  the  whisp'ring  wood 

Holding  thee  near,  impalpable  to  sight, 
Silently  close,  a  sanctity  to  light 

The  bleeding  Bible  of  a  mother's  pray'r. 

Thy  feet  are  on  the  path  my  heart  would  take,- 
When  weary,  desolate,  and  sick  of  man, 

It  turns  to  where  its  youthful  roadway  ran 
Fairly  to  view,  without  a  shape  to  break 

Loneliness  all ;  yet,  like  a  summer  lake, 

Blithe  with  the  dimpling  dancers  of  the  Sun. 

I  lean  on  thee  for  rest,  as  one  who  feels 

A  heavy  burthen  mocking  at  his  strength, 
And  of  his  journey  knoweth  not  the  length. 


PSYCHE.  147 

Nor  where  the  ending  ;  but  exhausted  reels, 
Pantingly  weak,  to  where  some  turn  reveals 
Stones  of  a  grave  to  plant  his  staff  upon. 

I  know  thou  art  not  dead,  nor  living  thou, 
But  borne  an  airy  sculpture  of  the  breath 

Above  the  lilies  motionless  of  death. 

So  much  the  tomb  hath  marble  from  thy  brow, 

Veinless  of  pain,  as  life  has  lost  but  now 
Of  the  white  innocence  of  perfect -good. 

O  leave  me  not  alone ;  for  losing  thee, 

I  lose  the  tender  manliness  of  one 
Who,  lest  some  flow'r  be  hidden  from  the  sui 

By  his  frail  shadow  cast  upon  the  lea, 
Thoughtfully  turns  to  where  his  shade  may  be 

Lost  in  the  rustling  twilight  of  the  wood. 

My  spirit  clings  to  thee,  and  in  its  spells 
Of  doubting  all  itself  can  worthy  show 

To  hold  thee  steadfast,  sadly  come  and  go 
Fancies  of  lingering,  fainting,  far  farewells, 

Mournfully  clear,  as  through  a  fog  the  bells 
Of  some  lost  vessel  sinking  down  at  sea. 


148  PSYCHE. 

Still  fondly  bide  with  me  ;  for  thou  art  mine, 

As  to  myself  a  nobler  self  belongs, 
The  higher  music  dream' d  in  all  my  songs  ; 

What  of  my  being  might  be  half  divine, 
Rightfully  grown,  in  Nature's  first  design  ; 

Not  what  I  was,  nor  am,  but  what  would  be. 

O  keep  me  true  to  thee,  that  nought  defile 
A  truth  unstudied  to  my  fellow-man, 

Plann'd  for  myself ;  as  little  children  plan ; 
Who,  in  their  wisdom,  selfish  without  guile, 

Fancy  the  earth  is  happy  when  they  smile, 

And  think  the  world  is  drowning  when  they  weep. 

Nearer  to  thee  I  come,  as  o'er  me  roll 

The  waved  pulsations  of  ungrateful  Wrong ; 

Though  with  my  shadow  moves  my  grave  along. 
Nearer  to  thee  for  rest,  as  one  whose  goal 

For  ever  is  where  ends  his  latest  stroll, 

On  his  own  shadow  lays  him  down  to  sleep. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  WATCH. 


OOLDIER,  soldier,  wan  and  grey, 

Standing  there  so  very  still, 
On  the  outpost  looking  South, 
What  is  there  to-night  to  kill  ? 


Through  the  mist  that  rises  thick, 
From  the  noisome  marsh  around, 

I  can  see  thee  like  a  shade 

Cast  from  something  underground. 

And  I  know  that  thou  art  old, 
For  thy  features,  sharp  and  thin, 

Cut  their  lines  upon  the  shroud 
Damply  folding  thee  within. 


150  THE  MIDNIGHT    WATCH. 

Fit  art  thou  to  watch  and  guard 
O'er  the  brake  and  o'er  the  bog  ; 

By  the  glitter  of  thine  eyes 

Thou  can'st  pierce  a  thicker  fog. 

Tell  me,  soldier,  grim  and  old, 
•  If  thy  tongue  is  free  to  say, 

What  thou  seest  looking  South, 
In  that  still  and  staring  way  ? 

Yonderward  the  fires  may  glow 
Of  a  score  of  rebel  camps  ; 

But  thou  can'st  not  see  their  lights, 
Through  the  chilling  dews  and  damps. 

Silent  still,  and  motionless  ? 

Get  thee  to  the  tents  behind, 
Where  the  flag  for  which  we  fight 

Plays  a  foot-ball  to  the  wind. 

Get  thee  to  the  bankments  high, 
Where  a  thousand  cannon  sleep, 

While  the  call  that  bids  them  wake 
Bids  a  score  of  millions  weep. 


THE  MIDNIGHT   WATCH.  151 

Thou  shalt  find  an  army  there, 

Working  out  the  statesman's  plots, 

While  a  poison  banes  the  land, 
And  a  noble  nation  rots. 

Thou  shalt  find  a  soldier-host 

Tied  and  rooted  to  its  place, 
Like  a  woman  cowed  and  dumb, 

Staring  Treason  in  the  face. 

Dost  thou  hear  me  ?     Speak,  or  move  ! 

And  if  thou  would' st  pass  the  line,  • 

Give  the  password  of  the  night — 

Halt !  and  give  the  countersign. 

God  of  Heaven  !  what  is  this 

Sounding  through  the  frosty  air, 
In  a  cadence  stern  and  slow, 

From  the  figure  looming  there  ! 

"  Sentry,  thou  hast  spoken  well " — 

Through  the  mist  the  answer  came — 

"  J  am  wrinkled,  grim,  and  old, , 
May'st  thou  live  to  be  the  same ! 


152  THE  MIDNIGHT    WATCH. 

"  Thou  art  here  to  keep  a  watch 
Over  prowlers  coining  nigh  ; 
I  can  show  thee,  looking  South, 
What  is  hidden  from  thine  eye. 

"  Here,  the  loyal  armies  sleep  ; 

There,  the  foe  awaits  them  all ; 
Who  can  tell  before  the  time 

Which  shall  triumph,  which  shall  fall  ? 

"  O,  but  war's  a  royal  game, 
•  Here  a  move  and  there  a  pause  ; 

Little  recks  the  dazzled  world 
What  may  be  the  winner's  cause. 

"  In  the  roar  of  sweating  guns, 

In  the  crash  of  sabres  cross' d, 
Wisdom  dwindles  to  a  fife, 
Justice  in  the  smoke  is  lost. 

"  But  there  is  a  mightier  blow 

Than  the  rain  of  lead  and  steel, 
Falling  from  a  heavier  hand 

Than  the  one  the  vanquish' d  feel. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  WATCH.  153 

"  Let  the  armies  of  the  North 

Rest  them  thus  for  many  a  night ; 
Not  with  them  the  issue  lies, 

'Twixt  the  pow'rs  of  Wrong  and  Eight. 

"  Through  the  fog  that  wraps  us  round 

I  can  see  as  with  a  glass, 
Far  beyond  the  rebel  hosts 

Fires  that  cluster,  pause,  and  pass. 

"  From  the  wayside  and  the  wood, 

From  the  cabin  and  the  swamp, 
Crawl  the  harbingers  of  blood, 

Black  as  night,  with  torch  and  lamp. 

"  Now  they  blend  in  one  dense  throng ;        u 

Hark  !  they  whisper,  as  in  ire — 
Catch  the  word  before  it  dies — 
Hear  the  horrid  murmur — *  Fire  ! ' 

"  Mothers,  with  your  babes  at  rest, 

Maidens  in  your  dreaming-land — 
Brothers,  children — wake  ye  all ! 
The  Avenger  is  at  hand. 


154  THE   MIDNIGHT    WATCH. 

"  Born  by  thousands  in  a  flash, 

Angry  flames  bescourge  the  air, 
And  the  howlings  of  the  blacks 
Fan  them  to  a  fiercer  glare. 

"  Crash  the  windows,  burst  the  doors, 

Let  the  helpless  call  for  aid ; 
From  the  hell  within  they  rush 
On  the  negro's  reeking  blade. 

"  Through  the  flaming  doorway  arch, 
Half-dress'd  women  frantic  dart ; 
Demon  !  spare  that  kneeling  girl — 
God !  the  knife  is  in  her  heart. 

"  By  his  hair  so  thin  and  grey 

Forth  they  drag  the  aged  sire ; 
First,  a  stab  to  stop  his  pray'r — 
Hurl  him  back  into  the  fire. 

"  What !  a  child,  a  mother's  pride, 

Crying  shrilly  with  affright ! 
Dash  the  axe  upon  her  skull, 
Show  no  mercy — she  is  white. 


THE  MIDNIGHT    WATCH.  155 

"  Louder,  louder  roars  the  flame, 

Blotting  out  the  Southern  home ; 
Fainter  grow  the  dying  shrieks, 
Fiercer  cries  of  vengeance  come. 

"  Turn,  ye  armies,  where  ye  stand, 

Glaring  in  each  other's  eyes  ; 
While  ye  halt,  a  cause  is  won  ; 
While  ye  wait  a  despot  dies. 

"  Greater  victory  has  been  gain'd 

Than  the  longest  sword  secures, 

And  the  Wrong  has  been  wash'd  out 

With  a  purer  blood  than  yours." 

Soldier,  by  my  mother's  pray'r  ! 

Thou  dost  act  a  demon's  part ; 
Tell  me,  ere  I  strike  thee  dead, 

Whence  thou  comest,  who  thou  art. 

Back !  I  will  not  let  thee  pass — 
Why,  that  dress  is  Putnam's  own ! 

Soldier,  soldier,  where  art  thou  ? 
Vanish' d — like  a  shadow  gone  ! 


THE  HOPES  OF  DAYS  GONE  BY. 


"  O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

TENNYSON. 


TMPERIAL  years,  whose  crowns  on  crosses  rest, 
Rich  in  all  honors,  deathless  in  all  fame  ; 

Grand  with  the  echoes  of  a  God's  reply 
To  the  wild  pray'r  Ambition  gives  the  breast ! 
Where  is  the  Promise,  purer  far,  that  bless' d 

The  Hopes  of  Days  gone  by  ? 

Shadows  of  shades,  that  chill  and  mock  the  soul ! 
Spectres  to  Memory  of  the  Unfulfill'd ; 

Harsh  with  unkind  reproaches  to  the  eye 
That  looks  on  all,  and  misses  yet  the  whole — 
O  flowers  of  youth  that  all  your  sweetness  stole — 

The  Hopes  of  Days  gone  by ! 


THE  HOPES    OF  DATS    GONE  BY.        157 

Fond,  foolish  dreams  !  of  childish  fever  born ; 
Vain  as  the  airy  cities  of  the  clouds 

By  poet-fancy  traced  against  the  sky ; 
Frail  as  the  bubble  on  the  new  wave  worn, 
Yet  pure  and  holy  as  the  hush  of  morn — 

The  Hopes  of  Days  gone  by ! 

Years,  weary  years,  with  all  the  woes  ye  win 
For  throned  Misfortune,  there's  a  moment  still 

In  anguish  richer  than  to  know  and  die — 
When  Boyhood  ends,  and  Manhood's  cares  begin, 
To  feel  and  know  that  naught  was  real  in 

The  Hopes  o.f  Days  gone  by  1 


OUR  FLAG.    « 

i. 
Tj^LAG  of  my  country !  Standard  of  the  free 

In  ev'ry  land  where  dwelleth  Liberty : 
Thou  fairest  page  the  eye  of  Light  can  find, 
Turn'd  by  the  quivering  fingers  of  the  wind ; 
Charter  of  Hope  by  God  to  mortals  given, 
Bright  with  the  planetary  pomp  of  Heaven ; 
Still  to  the  patriot  a  recorded  pray'r 
Ling'ring  in  sweet  suspense  upon  the  air ; 
Lst  me  within  thy  broad  protection  stand, 
And  read  thine  honors  for  my  native  land. 

ii. 

As  from  the  shatter'd  temple  of  the  storm 
Springs  the  grand  arch  of  light  in  fairest  form, — 
Splits  the  black  dome  'mid  distant  thunder's  din, 
And,  through  the  shadows,  lets  the  sunshine  in, — 


OUR    FLAG.  159 

So  thou,  my  Country's  Banner,  did'st  arise 
From  a  dead  storm  whose  battles  shook  the  skies  r 
Rose,  like  the  coming  day's  memorial  shield 
From  a  red  sunset's  torn  and  bleeding  field, — 
Dipp'd  in  the  starry  mine,  whose  clusters  bright. 
Drawn  to  a  Union,  beam'd  the  perfect  light. 

in. 

» 

Born  of  the  Battle,  nursling  of  the  wind, 

Symbol  of  strength  unfurl'd  for  all  mankind, 

Through  the  dark  hour  that  brings  our  brothers  shame, 

Still  from  our  altars  rise  a  beacon  flame. 

Pride  of  the  air  !  thou  solitary  spar, 

Cast  to  the  sea  whose  waves  the  whirlwinds  are, 

Scarce  the  faint  wretch  thy  signal  stars  descries 

When  a  new  life  is  kindled  in  his  eyes  ; 

Nerved  with  a  might  dividing  fates  to  dare, 

Boldly  he  cleaves  the  billows  of  despair, 

Clasps  thee  in  triumph  to  his  heaving  breast 

And  drifts  securely  to  a  haven  rest. 

IV. 

Proudest  of  flags  that  mount  the  giddy  mast, 
Coy  to  the  breeze,  defiant  to  the  blast, 


160  OUR   FLAG. 

Blazon'd  aloft  in  ev'ry  zone  and  clime, 

Sheath  for  the  sword,  or  badge  for  harvest  time ; 

Spread  at  command  of  cannon's  deadly  throat ; 

Flutt'ring  in  play  to  merman's  liquid  note  ; 

Whether  thy  hues  in  polar  vapors  freeze, 

Or  blend  with  sunset  on  the  southern  seas, 

Still  thy  broad  folds  shake  deathless  honors  down 

On  the  free  head  too  proud  to  wear  a  crown  ; 

Still  to  God's  image,  be  he  bond  or  free, 

Thou  art  a  birthright  of  Equality  ! 

v. 

And  shall  this  sacred  leaf  in  Glory's  tome, 
Pluck'd  from  the  volume  storying  Nature's  dome 
And  a  great  nation's  grand  appeal  to  God 
For  the  blest  power  to  break  a  tyrant's  rod, 
Be  by  the  hands  of  its  own  bearers  riven — 
Torn  and  despoil'd  the  heraldry  of  heaven  ? 
At  the  fell  thought,  what  darkness  falls  arotfnd ! 
See  the  "red  streams  flow  gurgling  from  the  ground! 
Blood  of  our  fathers,  hallowing  every  spot, 
Are  the  grand  lives  pour'd  out  in  thee  forgot  ? 
Shades  of  the  mighty  !  pan  thy  dead  eyes  see 
Brother  to  brother  curse  thy  legacy  ? 


OUR   FLAG.  161 

VI. 

Hark  !  from  the  North  what  sullen  murmurs  come — 
And  from  the  South  wells  up  a  mournful  hum  ; 
Soft  through  the  East  the  muffled  drums  resound ; 
And  in  the  West  a  dead  command  goes  round. 
Hark  to  the  tramp  of  ghostly  armies  four 
Through  the  long  grass  bedew'd  with  heroes'  gore ! 
From  the  red  hill  where  Warren's  soldiers  bled — 
From  the  dark  fens  where  slumber  Marion's  dead — 
From  the  free  plains  where  Scott's  battalions  fell — 
From  the  dread  field  whose  tale  let  Britons  tell — 
Onward  they  come,  in  all  the  dread  array 
Of  a  slam  army  on  the  Judgment-Day. 

VII. 

Well  for  the  land  whose  madden'd  sons  would  dare 

Trample  in  dust  the  signet  of  the  air — 

Well  for  the  land  whose  impious  purpose,  known, 

Robs  of  its  weight  the  grim  funereal  stone — 

That  as  the  hosts  from  beds  of  ages  call'd 

Turn  their  pale  faces  to  the  skies  appall' d, 

Full  from  the  nation's  Capitolic  dome 

Beam  the  Republic's  stars  amid  the  gloom : 

Still  they  all  shine,  and  still  the  stripes  defend — 

These  for  the  foe,  those  for  the  trusty  friend  ? 


162  OUR   FLAG. 

VIII. 

As  the  dead  army  mark  the  starry  shrine, 
Sounds  of  thanksgiving  thrill  along  the  line ; 
Swiftly  the  arms  to  set  position  come, 
And  the  salute  is  answer'd  by  the  drum ; 
Then,  as  the  templed  shadows  fall  away, 
Waves  the  old  Flag  in  all  the  glow  of  day ! 
Gone  are  the  hosts,  no  more  to  trouble  men 
Till  the  last  trumpet  sounds  the  march  again. 

IX. 

Flag  of  the  Fallen  !     Standard  of  the  Dead ! 
Thee  let  me  follow  with  unwavering  tread ; 
Free  from  the  touch  of  slave  and  tyrant  fly, 
And  when  thou  fadest  let  a  nation  die  ! 
Bond  of  the  Freeman  !  sacred  with  the  blood 
Shed  by  brave  men  for  brave  men's  noblest  good  ;- 
Say  to  the  eye  that  looks  to  God  and  Thee 
From  a  scorn' d  trust,  or  fell  captivity  ; 
Stripes  for  the  traitor,  foe,  and  Honor's  ban, 
Heav'n  for  the  patriot  and  the  honest  man ! 


NO  MORE. 

TJUSH'D  be  the  song  and  the  love-notes  of  gladness 

That  broke  with  the  morn  from  the  cottager's  door- 
Muffle  the  tread  in  the  soft  stealth  of  sadness, 

For  one  who  returneth,  whose  chamber-lamp  burneth 

No  more. 

Silent  he  lies  on  the  broad  path  of  glory, 

Where  withers  ungarner'd  the  red  crop  of  war. 

Grand  is  his  couch,  though  the  pillows  are  gory, 

'Mid  forms  that  shall  battle,  'mid  guns  that  shall  rattle 

No  more. 

Soldier  of  Freedom,  thy  marches  are  ended — 

The  dreams  that  were  prophets  of  triumph  are  o'er ; 

Death  with  the  night  of  thy  manhood  is  blended — 
The  bugle  shall  call  thee,  the  fight  shall  enthrall  thee 

No  more. 


164  NO    MORE. 

Far  to  the  Northward  the  banners  are  dimming, 

And  faint  comes  the  tap  of  the  drummers  before ; 
Low  in  the  tree-tops  the  swallow  is  skimming ; 

Thy  comrades  shall  cheer  thee,  the  weakest  shall  fear 
thee 

No  more. 

Far  to  the  Westward  the  day  is  at  vespers, 

And  bows  down  its  head,  like  a  priest,  to  adore  ; 

Soldier,  the  twilight  for  thee  has  no  whispers, 

The  night  shall  forsake  thee,  the  morn  shall  awake  thee 

No  more. 

Wide  o'er  the  plain,  where  the  white  tents  are  gleaming, 
In  spectral  array,  like  the  graves  they're  before — 

One  there  is  empty,  where  once  thou  wert  dreaming 
Of  deeds  that  are  boasted,  of  One  that  is  toasted 

No  more. 

When  the  Commander  to-morrow  proclaimeth 

A  list  of  the  brave  for  the  nation  to  store, 
Thou  shalt  be  known  with  the  heroes  he  nameth, 

Who  wake  from  their  slumbers,  who  answer  their  num 
bers 

No  more. 


NO   MORE. 

Hush'd  be  the  song  and  the  love-notes  of  gladness 
That  broke  with  the  morn  from  the  cottager's  door — 

Muffle  the  tread  in  the  soft  stealth  of  sadness, 

For  one  who  returneth,  whose  chamber-lamp  burneth 

No  more. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

i. 
fTHHE  solemn  winds  were  sighing  for  the  echoes  dead  and 

dying, 
That  were  wont  to  teach  them  music  when  their  lutes 

were  on  the  trees  ; 
And  the  snow  in  tides  was  curling,  dancing  here  and  there, 

and  whirling, 
Like  the  ashes  of  the  lilies  on  the  waves  of  ghostly  seas. 

ii. 

As  a  haunted  mausoleum,  'neath  the  spell  of  a  Te  Deum, 
That  should  lay  the  restless  spirit  of  some  disembodied 
woe, 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  167 

Stretch'd   the   world   in   awful  slumber,  while  its  oceans 

pulsed  the  number 

Of  its  years,  upon  that  Christmas  Eve  within  the  Long 
Ago. 

in. 

The  trees,  all  wan,  and  tatter'd,  spread  their  wither'd  arms, 

and  shatter' d, 
To  receive  their  shrouds  of  ermine  as  they  fell  in  fringes 

down  5 

And  each  tall  and  shadowy  steeple,  keeping  guard  o'er  hid 
den  people, 
Caught  the  heavenly  benefaction  in  a  mitre  or  a  crown. 


rv. 

The  awe-struck  soul  of  Nature,  turning  softly  from  the 
Future, 

Look'd,  in  dreams,  through  weary  ages  back  to  a  celes 
tial  morn ; 

And  while  snows  were  sadly  falling,  and  the  wind  to 
wind  was  calling, 

Felt  the  glory  of  that  moment  when  Our  Blessed  Lord 
was  born ! 


168  CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

v. 

Far  and  wide  the  winds  were  shaken,  that  the  winter's 

gnomes  had  taken, 
And  they  shaped  and  cast  their  feather'd  coins  on  palace 

and  on  cot ; 
But  though  all  the  rest  had  slumber'd  that  the  living  world 

had  numbered, 

Still  one  there  was  who  waking  felt,  although  he  heard 
them  riot. 

vi. 

Where  crazy  casements  rattled,  and  a  door  uneven  battled 
With  the  grim  and  ice-mail' d  spearsmen  charging  blindly 

on  the  blast, 
Dwelt  the  Watcher,  old  and  lonely,  with  a  bitter  memory 

only 

To  keep  him  present  company  and  link  him  with  the 
past. 

VII. 

His  garments,  thin  and  tatter'd,  o'er  his  poor  old  form 

were  scattered, 

Like  the  shrivell'd  leaves  of  autumn  o'er  a  fallen  forest 
tree; 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  169 

And  his  hoary  locks,  that  blended  with  a  silvery  beard  un- 

tended, 

Framed  features  pinch' d  with  years  of  want  and  cruel 
poverty. 

VIII. 

No  faggot  blazed  to  cheer  him,  and  the  empty  cupboard 

near  him 

Was  eloquent  of  all  that  poor  humanity  can  bear, 
While  burn'd  a  single  taper,  whose  faint  and  sickly  caper 
Show'd  hideous  spiders,  webb'd  and  toss'd   upon  the 
frosty  air. 

IX. 

But  spite  of  all  the  squalor,  and  misery,  and  dolour 

That  mock'd  the  old  man,  like  a  curse,  with  prophecies 
of  fate, 

Around  him  clung  a  glory,  like  some  unwritten  story 
That  sanctifies  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  temple  great 


Within  the  taper's  glimmer,  and  while  it  faded  dimmer, 
A  vague  and  taunting  spectre  of  the  world's  misguided 
dross, 

8 


170  CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

He  sat  with  all  the  seeming  of  one  in  memory  dreaming, 
And  clasp'd  in  his  poor,  shaking  hands,  a  little  Golden 
Cross. 

XI. 

Before  the  days  of  trouble,  a  woman  wore  the  bauble — 

A  maiden  true  and  holy  as  the  spirit  of  a  prayer ; 
Angel  wings  in  all  her  motions,  and  the  souls  of  living 

oceans 

Prison' d  in  the  eyes  reflecting  all  the  sunlight  of  her 
hair. 

XII. 

A  Father's  Faith  was  round  her,  and  in  sunny  chains  it 

bound  her 

To  her  young  heart's  best  ideal  of  a  Mother  gone  Above ; 
But,  alas !  the  chains  were  broken,  when  a  word  in  secret 

spoken 

Tore  her  soul  from  out  its  heaven  with  a  troubled  dream 
of  Love. 

XIII. 

Then  came  a  waking  morrow,  when  the  depths  of  tearless 

sorrow 
Gave  up  their  dead  in  curses  that  would  stir  a  god  to  fear ; 


CHRISTMAS   EVE.  171 

And  while  Christmas  bells  were  ringing,  and  the  Christmas 

choir  was  singing, 

The  old  man's  Hope  went  down  to  death  as  waned  the 
dying  year. 

XIV. 

Upon  the  highway  wending,  a  figure  slight  and  bending, 

Swept  by  the  happier  beggar,  who  in  pity  ceased  to  grieve ; 
For  the  Curse  had  bred  a  terror  in  that  stricken  child  of 

Error, 

And  she  fled,  she  knew  not  whither,  on  that  darksome 
Christmas  Eve. 

xv. 

The  old  man,  grim  and  lonely,  waited — waited  for  this  only — 
A  moment — e'en  a  second — in  the  valley  of  his  days, 

To  make  the  Curse  a  Blessing — for  his  inner  soul  confessing, 
Left  his  loss  a  double  torture,  with  the  Lost  before  his 
gaze. 

XVI. 

But  the  years  roll'd  on  unheeding,  deaf  to  all  his  hopes 

and  pleading 

That  some  pitying  day  would  bring  her,  like  God's  par 
don,  to  his  door ; 


172  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

And  the  Curse,  in  vengeance  utter' d,  ever  round  his  being 

mutter' d 

In  the  likeness  of  a  Shadow — Her  last  shadow  on  the 
floor! 

XVII. 

There  he  sat,  that  Christmas  Even,  still  the  bann'd  of  Earth 

and  Heaven, 
With  the  best  and  only  token  of  the  angel  that  had 

been ; 
And  the  little  Cross,  uplifted,  seem'd  by  God's   approval 

gifted 

With  power  to  weigh  a  father's  tears  against  a  father's 
sin. 

xvin. 
Lo !  while  yet  he  gazed  in  sadness,  the  winds  in  sudden 

madness 
Dash'd  down  the  door  between  them  and  the  hoary 

watcher  there, 

And  on  the  threshold  kneeling,  no  gloom  of  night  conceal 
ing, 

He  saw  Her,  as  he  knew  her,  with  the  sunlight  in  her 
hair! 


CHRISTMAS   EVE.  173 

XIX. 

"  AT  LAST  I"     The  sentence  spoken  from  a  heart  long  lone 

and  broken 

Told  all  the  weary  sorrows  that  a  life  had  made  its  store. 
The  kneeling  Spirit  listen' d,  the  Cross  with  glory  glisten' d ; 
And  lo !  the  haunting  Shadow  faded  from  the  dimming 
floor! 

xx. 

"  My  sin  is  all  forgiven  !     You  pray  for  me  in  Heaven  ?" 
The  old  man  wildly  whisper'd  with  his  trembling  lips 

apart; 

Fhe  Spirit  grasps  his  fingers,  a  moment  smiling  lingers, 
Then  clasps  the  Sacred  Symbol  with  his  hands  unto  Her 
heart! 

XXI. 

Like  music  born  of  Sorrow,  but  sweet  as  Love's  to-mor 
row, 
There  came  these  words  of  comfort,  and  all  lovingly  they 

N  fell : 
"  I  am  worthy  now  to  wear  it.     Father — Mother — you  can 

spare  it ; 

For  your  Child,  through   deep   repentance,  made   the 
Curse  a  Holy  Spell." 


174  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

xxn. 
Then  the  old  man's  voice  resounded,  and  from  wall  and 

beam  rebounded, 
With  grandeur,  like  the  organ's  swell,  where  ancient 

worlds  adore : 
"  Angel — Darling — let  me   grasp  thee  !     Let  these  arms 

once  only  clasp  thee," 

And  with  arms  outspread  and  groping,  he  fell  forward  to 
the  floor. 

XXIII. 

There  crept  a  hush  on  Nature,  and  each  dumb  and  browsing 

creature 
Turn'd  its  head  with  instinct  reverence  unto  the  sacred 

East; 
And  midway  of  the  Heaven  burst  the  imperial  Star  of 

Even ; 

For    the   tyrant  Wind  was  broken,   and  the   Wintry 
storm  had  ceased. 

XXIV. 

The  solemn  bells  were  chiming,  in  a  measured  cadence  tim 
ing 

The  quick  pulsations  of  the  world  when  dies  Another 
Day; 


CHRISTMAS   EVE.  175 

And  all  the  hosts  of  glory  in  sweet  murmurs  told  the  story 
Of  our  Blessed  Saviour's  Coming,  and  the  Manger  where 
He  lay. 

XXV. 

The  silent  moon  swept  gleaming  'mid  planet-torches  stream 
ing, 
And  paved  the  floor  with  quaint  designs  of  pearl  and 

silver  bands ; 
But  still  the  old  man  sleeping,  his  Christmas   Eve   was 

keeping 

Prone  in  the  ghastly  radiance,  with  his  face  upon  his 
hands. 


THE  DYING  YEAK. 

T\ YING  at  last,  Old  Year! 

Another  stroke  of  yonder  clock,  and  thou 
Wilt  pass  the  threshold  of  the  world  we  see, 
Into  the  world  where  Yesterday  and  Now 
Blend  with  the  hours  of  the  No  More  To  Be. 

I  saw  the  moon  last  night 
Rise  like  a  crown  from  the  dim  mountain's  head 

And  to  the  Council  of  the  Stars  take  way ; 
For  thou,  the  King,  though  kinsman  of  the  dead, 

Sway'd  still  the  sceptre  of  Another  Day. 

I  see  the  moon  to-night, 
Sightless  and  misty  as  a  mourner's  eye 

Behind  a  vail ;  or,  like  a  coin  to  seal 
The  lids  of  Time's  last-born  to  majesty, 

Touch'd  with  the  darkness  of  a  hidden  Leal. 


THE  DYTNG    YEAR.  177 

Mark  where  yon  shadow  crawls 
By  slow  degrees  beneath  the  window-sill, 

Timed  by  the  death-watch,  ticking  slow  and  dull ;      • 
The  tide  of  night  is  rising,  black  and  still — 

Old  Year,  thou  diest  when  'tis  at  its  full ! 

Aye !  moan  and  moan  again, 
And  shake  all  nature  in  thine  agony, 

And  tear  the  ermine  robes  that  mock  thee  now 
Like  gilded  fruit  upon  a  blasted  tree  ; 

To-morrow  comes  !     To-morrow,  where  art  Thou  ? 

Would' st  thou  be  shrived,  Old  Year  ? 
Thou  subtle  sentence  of  delusive  Tune, 

Framed  but  to  deepen  all  the  mystery 
Of  Life's  great  purpose  !     Come,  confess  the  crime, 

And  man's  Divinity  shah1' date  from  thee  I 

Speak  to  my  soul,  Old  Year ; 
Let  but  a  star  leave  its  bright  eminence 

In  thy  death-struggle,  if  this  deathless  Soul 
Holds  its  own  destiny  and  recompense 

In  the  grand  mast'ry  of  a  GOD'S  control ! 


178  THE  DYING    TEAR. 

No  sound,  no  sign  from  thee  ? 
And  must  I  live,  not  knowing  why  I  live, 

Whilst  Thou  and  years  to  come  pass  by  me  here 
With  faces  hid,  refusing  still  to  give 

The  one  poor  word  that  bids  me  cease  to  fear  ? 

That  word,  I  charge  thee,  speak ! 
Quick !  for  the  moments  tremble  on  the  verge 

Of  the  black  chasm  where  lurks  the  midnight  spell, 
And  solemn  winds  already  chant  thy  dirge — 

Give  Earth  its  Heaven,  or  Hell  a  deeper  Hell ! 

Speak  !  or  I  curse  thee  here  ! 
I'll  call  it  YEA  if  but  a  wither' d  twig, 

Toss'd  by  the  wind,  falls  rattling  on  the  roof ; 
I'll  call  it  YEA,  if  e'en  a  shutter  creak, 

Breathe  but  on  me,  and  it  shall  stand  for  proof ! 

Too  late  !     The  midnight  bell— 
The  crawling  shadow  at  its  witching  flood, 

With  the  deep  gloom  of  the  Beyond  is  wed, 
And  I,  unanswer'd,  sit  within  and  brood, 

And  thou,  Old  Year,  art  "silent — Thou  art  DEAD  ! 


IN  CAPITE. 

Who  hath  his  birthright  in  immortal  Song, 
To  disappointment  should  be  doubly  strong  ; 
In  him  'tis  strength  to  know  that  man  is  frail, 
And  greatness  measured  by  a  might  to  fail. 

When,  by  a  lofty  inspiration  driven, 
His  pen  appears  the  lightning-tongue  of  Heaven, 
He  writes  a  dream, — and  lo  I  his  lines  have  caught 
The  shadow  only  of  a  dreamer's  thought. 

To  him  all  nature  in  the  sunshine  spread 
Reveals  a  Poem  yet  divinely  dead; 
He  sees  descend  through  clouds,  in  summer  show'rs, 
The  souls  transparent  of  the  coming  flow1  rs  ; 

But  ichen  his  hand,  in  mood  sublime,  would  fain 
Write  out  the  Poem,  penrid  in  living  rain, 
All  semblance  fadeth  as  the  moisture  dries, 
The  rain  remaineth  only  for  his  eyes. 

One  Verse  alone  all  Poetry  combines, 
Its  grandeur  perfect  in  four  simple  lines  : 
Earth,  Air,  Fire,  Water,  or  to  bless  or  curse, 
Its  writer  God,  its  name  the  Universe  I 


